


Certain as Death and Taxes

by Morgenleoht



Series: A Winter of Dragons [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Fantastic Racism, Genocide, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Torture, Imprisonment, Misogyny, Mommy Issues, Multi, Religious Conflict, Sins of the Father, Taxes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2017-05-22
Packaged: 2018-10-05 16:15:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 34
Words: 75,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10312154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgenleoht/pseuds/Morgenleoht
Summary: Aurelia Callaina is a tax collector assigned to Helgen. One day a dragon from prophecy attacks and destroys the town. She could live with that. Akatosh will find a Dragonborn to deal with the World-Eater.He does. It's her.And she thought Skyrim's tax system was a joke.





	1. Helgen

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and mentions of imprisonment, torture, genocide, religious persecution, child abuse/neglect, misogyny and drug/alcohol abuse. My original username of Morninglight was dropped after significant drama in the Fallout 4 fandom but now I’m back as Morgenleoht. Blame Chamerion for this idea after a long discussion about tax time in Tamriel.

 

Every culture in Tamriel had its jokes about tax collectors and as a member of the Imperial Provincial Revenue Service, Aurelia Callaina had heard most of them. Cyrodiil had the regional variations of the Colovians claiming her kind were greedy and stupid and the Nibenese believing they were hideously overtaxed. The Bretons of High Rock accused the average tax officer of being a jumped-up peasant and the Redguards who remained in the Empire jested that of every three coins paid in tax, two went into the collector’s pocket. Orcs liked to make suggestions on where the Imperial tax forms should be filed, Bosmer pointed out that even the Meat Mandate forbade the eating of parasites, Altmer held themselves above paying tax and Khajiit observed that tax collectors were thieves with licences. Dunmer considered it a national pastime to find legal reasons to hire Morag Tong assassins to avoid taxes and Argonians tried to pay in all sorts of noxious things they claimed were traditional tithes. And the Nords, sweet Kynareth, the Nords…

            She was beginning to suspect that the entire taxation system of Skyrim was an elaborate prank played on the Empire by the Nords.

            As the last month of summer, Last Seed was the harvest month in Skyrim and therefore time for paying taxes. On paper, the average citizen paid thirty percent of their yearly income or harvest in coin, service or kind to the hetman, who passed on thirty percent to the Thane, who passed on thirty percent to the Jarl, who passed on thirty percent to the High King, who gave the Empire thirty percent of their province’s income. Somewhat higher than what people in other provinces paid but, in theory, a workable system. The problem was that everyone had their own idea of how much thirty percent was and how it should be paid…

            Imperial law set an unskilled worker’s wage at one septim a day, setting the lowest threshold at which tax could be paid at seventy-two septims a year in Skyrim. Deductions could be made for service in the Legion auxiliary corps, which generally included Hold guards, or donations to approved temples of the Divines. Thanes and Jarls often demanded their share in goods or service instead of coin from the hetfolk and commoners, which led to… difficulties… when the local Imperial authorities needed manpower for repairing roads and fortifications – because said commoners had already paid their tax and resented being conscripted. Skyrim’s meagre mercantile class complained about excess tariffs on their goods because, so far as they were concerned, they’d paid their share to the Jarl. The Jarls claimed that providing guards to the Legion’s auxiliary corps paid _their_ thirty percent and pressured the High King to agree. Given that the rulers of Skyrim were generally chosen for their pliancy involving Imperial policy and not their backbone since the Oblivion Crisis, this only made the situation worse and led to Legionnaires seizing goods or properties for auction so that taxes could be paid in cold hard septims, thereby forcing Nords to join the Legions to gain much-needed deductions for their families.

            The result was that Imperial infrastructure in Skyrim was crumbling even as the country was being impoverished.

            She rubbed her aching temples as the figures on the parchment blurred. With such a clusterfuck in place, no wonder half of Skyrim had defected to the Stormcloaks. Callaina didn’t know if Jarl Ulfric of Windhelm had any ideas beyond ‘kick the Empire and the elves out so we can worship Talos again’ but she could understand the dissatisfaction that drove the rank and file.

            Even if the average Kreathling liked to mock her as ‘Korli Coin-Counter’ and repeat all the tired old Colovian jokes with some Nordic additions about her looks and marriageability thrown in for flavour.

            “I’m beginning to understand why the last assessor took religious vows,” she muttered, reaching for the pot of tea she brewed from purple mountain flowers soaked in honey every morning. Helgen was an important but dreary post in the Provincial Revenue Service; the worst positions to have were in Morthal and Winterhold accordingly, the two Holds being the most desperately poor in Skyrim. Dawnstar and Falkreath, the other two minor Holds, at least had the port and lumber exports to stimulate tax revenue. This was as far as she’d likely rise in the province, as she didn’t have the political savvy for Solitude, the mental fortitude for Markarth, the mercantile cunning for Whiterun, the benevolent corruption for Riften or the proper Nordic pedigree for Windhelm.

            The tea woke her up a little and she reached for the quill and ink once more. The Imperial bureaucracy was after her to squeeze blood from a stone, the Legion wanted to know when their rations and manpower were coming, and the citizens wanted their taxes to be light – or at least fair.

            At this rate, the only thing likely to happen would be for her sanity to run screaming into the night.

            There was some noise outside – a jeering crowd and Captain Iulia snapping orders about some executions – but Callaina focused on the numbers. Perhaps when the rebellion was defeated, she could speak to her superiors about the tax issues which led to many supporting Ulfric-

            Something landed outside and began to speak awful words that shook the Keep. Screams cut through the sound of thunder and General Tullius issued commands in his strident West Wealde brogue. Callaina felt a sudden atavistic fear that stopped her from going outside to see what was going on. Whatever was shouting out there wanted her dead.

            Provincial tax officers had to deal with some of the most belligerent cultures on Tamriel, oftentimes without adequate protection because in this fallen age, the Empire rarely had the Legionnaires to spare. Some relied on hired swords from the Fighters Guild or the more reputable freelance mercenary companies, others had martially inclined relatives. A few were highly competent mages or had the coin to afford them. Callaina, who had few surviving relatives thanks to the Great War and the resulting Thalmor purge, defended herself with a mixture of sword and spell as best she could.

            So, when she entered the front foyer of the Keep to find two Stormcloaks – Stormcloaks! – she was already armoured with Oakflesh and wielding a Legion-issue gladius. They stared at her after turning away from one of their own dead number, then the blond in the quilted leather gambeson of a Hold guard drew his iron war axe, only for the more elaborately armoured older man with brownish-blond hair to catch his arm. “Hold, Ralof,” he commanded in a resonant baritone. “This one might be useful.”

            “What in Oblivion’s going on out there?” Callaina demanded.

            “A dragon attacked Helgen and we’re making our escape,” the older Nord replied blandly. “You’re not planning on getting in our way, I hope?”

            “Unless you’ve got overdue taxes, catching you is the Legion’s job,” Callaina said dryly, earning a short laugh from Ralof. “Dragons are also a little bit above my paygrade.”

            “Maybe he’s here to pay his taxes,” quipped the younger Stormcloak. “You’re welcome to go outside and ask him.”

            “He’d be about the first creature in Skyrim to do so,” Callaina muttered. “Your tax system is a joke.”

            “It was created in a time when Skyrim ruled herself,” the Stormcloak commander said solemnly. “And when the Empire trusted us to pay it in our own way instead of impoverishing us by excess demands for coin.”

            “Make sure the front doors are closed!” ordered Iulia from the barracks. “We must find General Tullius!”

            Her oath to the Empire demanded that she join forces with the Legionnaires to cut the Stormcloaks down but judging by the easy way both men held their axes, she’d be dead by the time Iulia arrived. The report of a dragon stirred old memories from a childhood best forgotten, ones that demanded she stay alive. “I could try and talk Iulia into a temporary truce-“

            “She won’t listen.” The Stormcloak crouched beside the grated door. “Ralof?”

            Callaina found herself grabbed by the blond as Iulia and Gjuki, one of the Falkreath First scouts, entered the foyer. The armoured warrior rose to his feet, took a deep breath and unleashed a thunderclap of words that sent both Legionnaires tumbling arse over head. It was over quickly, Ulfric Stormcloak making short work of the dazed soldiers with his steel axe.

            “So the rumours about you Shouting Torygg to death are true,” Callaina breathed in fear.

            “I did to him what I just did to a woman who condemned innocent men to the headsman’s block,” the Jarl replied grimly after several moments. “You strike me as a… _sensible_ … woman. You can lead us from this place or you can join your Captain in death.”

            “She’s not my Captain and with the dragon out there, the only way out will be the dungeons,” Callaina answered bluntly. “The Legionnaires will be as likely to cut me down if I cooperate with you as you will if I don’t.”

            “We can’t stay here, Jarl Ulfric,” Ralof growled. “Either we kill her or we let her go.”

            The leader of the rebellion took a long look at Callaina before nodding. “So be it. Don’t get in our way or you’ll be killed.”

            Ralof released her and the tax officer rubbed her arm where he’d squeezed too hard. “As you said, I’m _sensible._ ”

            He snorted and strode for the corridor which would eventually lead to the torture chamber. Callaina knelt beside Iulia and Gjuki to close their eyes and lay their swords upon their chests.

            A hand on her shoulder led her to cast Frost Cloak and turn around with fire in her other hand until she realised it was Quaestor Hadvar.

            “We need to get out of here,” the plain-faced, broad-shouldered Skyrim Nord said gently.

            “Ulfric and Ralof are up ahead,” she reported shakily. “I couldn’t stop them-“

            “You’re not a soldier and both are hardened killers,” Hadvar reassured her, unfazed by the frosty wind that sheathed her form. “Hopefully the Legionnaires ahead will deal with them… If not, there will be a later reckoning. That dragon was awfully convenient because Ulfric was next on the chopping block.”

            Callaina rose to her feet. “Something tells me he’s got nothing to do with this, Quaestor. I think it’s something bigger than Ulfric.”

            “Maybe.” Broad shoulders shrugged. “Let’s go before that damned monster brings the Keep down on our heads.”

            Ulfric and Ralof had carved their way through Legion soldiers, leaving corpses scattered everywhere. Callaina swallowed back bile and cursed the pride of soldiers, however much she could understand their anger and frustration. “When this is over, we need to look at the tax system in Skyrim,” she muttered. “It’s a fucking mess.”

            “Agreed. I’m a little surprised to hear an Imperial bureaucrat admit it though.” Hadvar closed the eyes of a dead Kreathling scout.

            “We’re not all greedy assholes looking to line our pockets,” Callaina retorted, nettled at the implication.

            “No, you’re not. I admit I was surprised to meet a Nord in the tax service though. Most of them are Imperials.” Hadvar led her deeper into the dungeons. How many atrocities had been wrought in the name of empire here? Callaina might deplore the rebellion but she had no illusions about the Empire, not after the purges in Bruma.

            “Imperial inheritance is reckoned through the father and despite some questionable choices on my grandfather’s part, I come from an excellent Colovian lineage,” she responded, taking refuge in her usual dry manner. “My Nord mother was minor nobility in Falkreath.”

            “Oh, you’re from the Kreathling Jarls’ bloodline and no mistaking it,” Hadvar confirmed. “I figured that was why you were assigned to Helgen after Siddgeir took the Stag Throne on behalf of the Legion.”

            They entered a cave splattered with ichor and the huge frostbite spiders that infested Skyrim’s wilderness. “How do you know that?”

            “You have the eyes.” Hadvar sighed and shook his head. “Dengeir was a good Jarl until he went senile. Siddgeir’s… Well, he’s a piece of work. Thadgeir’s not popular with the citizens and Dengeir’s eldest Sigdrifa is ineligible because she’s married to Ulfric and as culpable in the rebellion as the esteemed Jarl of Windhelm, which also excludes her two sons Bjarni and Egil.”

            Callaina said nothing but instead focused on the clash of steel ahead. “I think we’re just behind Ulfric.”

            Hadvar drew his gladius. “There’s earth tar in the cave. Can you cast more than Flames?”

            “…Yes.”

            “Then you can even the fight for us.” His voice was iron. “You’re a Nord. Don’t flinch and if you die, you’ll go to Sovngarde.”

            Callaina swallowed and nodded. Burning people to death. Kynareth have mercy on her soul.

            There were two Stormcloaks trapped in the cave by a rockfall by the time they got there and her Firebolt spell, cast onto the earth tar, made short work of them. Callaina vomited at the stench of burned flesh – remembered from Bruma – and nigh-fainted. Only the thought of being trapped underground forever kept her wits about her.

            _To master Alteration, first accept that reality is a falsehood._ The statement from ‘Reality and Other Falsehoods’, one of the great Alteration textbooks, drifted through Callaina’s mind as she pressed her hands to the biggest of the boulders which blocked the path to the exit from Helgen. _Our reality is a perception of greater forces impressed upon us for their amusement._

 _Kynareth, Lady of the Earth and Sky and all creatures therein, I ask that You grant us a little of Your time and grace to escape this place…_ “Steinn til ryk,” she murmured in Old Atmoran, letting her magicka flow through her hands in a green haze.

            _Stone to dust._ A simple spell that hastened natural forces but left her exhausted. A few rocks shifted and fell into the space created by the unmade boulder; Hadvar’s great strength was enough to remove them. Until now, she’d never truly appreciated the bull-shouldered Nord’s powerful muscles.

            He half-supported, half-carried her out of the cave into the cold blue glare of a fine day, the dragon flying away with a bellow of victory. He was black and spiky, lending credence to the stories whispered to her by a paranoid mage as a child.

            “Shit,” she mumbled just before succumbing to exhaustion.


	2. The Road to Whiterun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warnings for death, violence, fantastic racism and mentions of torture, genocide and religious persecution.

 

Wherever Callaina was, it was warm, dark and furry. The air stank of tallow and resinous pine with undernotes of metal, snowberries and rabbit stew. Harsh Nord accents, three male and two female, squabbled just out of easy eavesdropping. Groaning and still cold at the fingertips from burning through her meagre pool of magicka, she opened her eyes and saw the bare planks of a Skyrim cottage. Immediately a dark-haired girl in plain garments of good weave jumped and yelled, “She’s awake!”

            A handsome auburn-haired woman bustled in, wearing the aproned overdress and long shift Callaina had learned to associate with prosperous Skyrim merchants. “You had Hadvar worried there,” she said brusquely.

            “Magicka drain,” Callaina explained with a wince, rubbing her hands together to warm them. “I don’t think he’s worked with many mages so he’s not familiar with it.”

            “I see.” From her tone, the woman didn’t. “I’m Sigrid, Hadvar’s aunt. It’s Korli, right?”

            “Yeah, close enough.” She sat up. “If you have any, can I please have some headache tea?”

            “Sure.” Sigrid poured something dark and foul-smelling from an old wine bottle into a pewter tankard. Willow-bark tea had to be illegal in Skyrim or something because she hadn’t been able to get any since crossing the border.

            Callaina pinched her nose closed and gulped down an acrid mixture that lingered sourly in the throat. “Thanks,” she managed to choke out after draining the flagon.

           

            “You’re welcome. I don’t know where Lucan gets the stuff but it works miracles.” Sigrid accepted the proffered flagon. “Can you get up? My husband and Hadvar are having a fight with the hetwoman and her Stormcloak brother about what to do. Maybe someone else from Helgen can talk some sense into Gerdur.”

            _Yes, because an Imperial tax collector is_ just _the person to persuade a rebel hetwoman._ “I’ll try but I make no promises.”

            Sigrid all but bundled her out of the bed and handed her a clean cotton shift and brown homespun dress, both worn and much-mended. “Your clothing was good for nothing but rags. Feel free to keep these.”

            “Thanks.” They were clean and the homespun dress soft. At least her boots and belt, made by the finest cobbler in Bruma, were salvageable.

            A quick face wash and hair brushing neatened Callaina up enough to feel human. Or maybe it was the foul-tasting tea. Despite her interest in alchemy, the bureaucrat _really_ didn’t want to know the ingredients.

            Outside, Hadvar’s home village was a two-street affair lined with a blacksmith’s, a general store and an inn, a lumber mill located on a small island in the middle of a river that ended in rapids just past the bridge. The cottages were small, snug and neat, peeled logs and time-smoothed planks chinked with mud and moss against the cold, the thatching thick but a little aged. All of them had a little porch and the cobblestoned streets were in fairly good repair, all things considered.

             Ralof, the Stormcloak who held her as Iulia and Gjuki were killed by Ulfric Stormcloak, stood beside a solid-looking blonde woman with a strong resemblance to him and the silver pendant of a hetwoman around her neck. Hadvar was next to another big-shouldered, plain-faced Nord with more gold in his hair and a beard to make any Nordic Jarl proud.

            “Should’ve figured you’d survive,” Ralof observed dryly. “Was the dragon there to pay his taxes?”

            “I don’t know. We didn’t stick around to ask,” Callaina responded with equal dryness. “What are you lot fighting about? I would’ve thought word had been sent to whoever’s Jarl around here by now.”

            “Jarl Balgruuf the Greater has refused to pick a side in the war so far,” Gerdur the hetwoman complained. “He’s a good man but he can’t remain neutral forever.”

            “Dragons trump a civil war any day in my eyes,” Callaina pointed out. “I don’t know what they say in Skyrim but in Bruma, they’re said to be the harbinger of the end times.”

            “We say that too in Skyrim,” Alvor confirmed grimly. “But the Dragonborn will save us.”

            “We say that too,” Callaina murmured. “Whole prophecy about it. Towers of Red and White-Gold and Brass and Snow trembling and falling and walking and made kingless.”

            She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. I’m sure Akatosh has already chosen the mighty hero destined to go toe to toe with the World-Eater.”

            The Skyrim Nords, all five of them, were looking at her strangely. “The World-Eater?” Gerdur said slowly. “Alduin himself?”

            “If he’s big, black and nasty, probably.” Callaina shrugged. “I was a child when I last heard that prophecy. We don’t tell it much in Bruma anymore.”

            “Why not?” Ralof asked.

            Callaina smiled grimly at the Stormcloak. “Because every last damn worshipper of Talos or ally of the Blades was tortured and crucified by the Thalmor during the various purges. The roads to and from Bruma were lined with their bodies. That prophecy was popular amongst them for any number of reasons.”

            To her gratification, they looked revolted. Then Ralof’s eyes narrowed. “Why didn’t they fight back?”

            “They did and died for it.” Callaina caught his bright blue eyes and held them. “I was fourteen when the last rebellion was crushed. Your Ulfric and his Thu’um weren’t there to help them, as I recall.”

            Ralof glanced away. “His focus is on Skyrim.”

            “Of course it is. And-“ Callaina caught herself before she revealed anything else. “It doesn’t matter. If you can’t decide who’s going to warn the Jarl, _I’ll_ do it. I have to go to… Whiterun, isn’t it?”

            “Yes,” Hadvar confirmed. “That’s a good idea, Korli.”

            “Of course you’d say that,” Ralof muttered. “She’s an Imperial tax collector.”

            “And you’re a Stormcloak who held me back while your mighty leader Shouted down two Legionnaires and killed them,” Callaina retorted acidly. “But I’ll try not to hold that against you.”

            “My ‘mighty leader’ stopped me from killing you,” Ralof growled. “You’re just another milk-drinking Colovian in Nord clothing.”

            “Whatever.” Callaina turned to Sigrid and Alvor. “How far away is Whiterun?”

            “About two hours’ walk,” Alvor, hitherto silent, replied. “It’s a hard city to miss.”

            “Thanks. And thanks also for the hospitality. I wish I could repay it somehow but I’m pretty much penniless at the moment.”

            “True Nords, no matter who they support, would never demand payment from a guest,” Sigrid said firmly. “Warning the Jarl is gift enough.”

            Hadvar handed her the gladius she’d wielded in Helgen. “Uncle Alvor sharpened it up for you. Wolves sometimes roam the road to Whiterun but you should be able to deal with them.”

            She stuck the sword through her belt, lacking a proper sheath for it. “Thanks for pulling me out of there, Quaestor.”

            “I’d say we’re even. If you hadn’t broken down that rock, we’d have been trapped under Helgen.” Broad shoulders shrugged. “And call me Hadvar.”

            Ralof snorted and Gerdur shook her head. Hetfolk never had time for tax collectors.

            Callaina nodded vaguely and headed for the bridge. If the gods were kind, she’d reach Whiterun safely and find someone else to dump this dragon problem on.

…

When she’d come to Skyrim, Callaina had been certain giants were a practical joke played on southerners by Nords.

            Now, the big pasty-white elaborately scarified monster falling sideways with her thrown gladius in his back proved her wrong. Maybe she should start taking some of the stories seriously.

            The redhead whose armour was little more than strategically placed chainmail, leather and steel plate lowered her ornately carved bow. “You handle yourself well,” she said approvingly. “You might make for a decent Shield-Sister.”

            “Shield-Sister?” Callaina asked confusedly. Whiterun, a decent town even by Colovian standards, was just over the river and it was getting dark. She’d only thrown the gladius at the giant because she wasn’t sure the three fighters – two women with bows and a giant of a man in black-lacquered armour – could handle a monster of such size.

            “We are of the Companions of Jorrvaskr,” the woman said simply.

            “Wait – the warriors who followed Ysgramor?”

            “Descended by blood and honour from them, yes.” The redhead smiled slightly. “Not many would match their strength against a giant, even with three others attacking it.”

            “I only threw the sword because I couldn’t conjure a firebolt,” Callaina admitted ruefully. She didn’t need to be mistaken for some hero.

            The other woman, a pretty Nibenese girl, studied her intently. “Spellsword?” she asked.

            “No, just someone who uses what she can to defend herself.” Callaina sighed and looked over at Whiterun. “Do you know how I can get an audience with the Jarl? I’m from Helgen and-“

            “ _You_ survived Helgen?” The respect in the redhead’s voice increased even more.

            “I survived because I was in the Keep and a Legionnaire wound up having to carry me out after I collapsed from magicka drain,” Callaina said with another sigh. “I got told I need to tell the Jarl what happened.”

            “We can get you to the Jarl,” the redhead said decisively. “I am Aela the Huntress, the Imperial is Ria and the little brother of the giant you felled is Farkas of the Hero-Twins.”

            Farkas grinned in the gathering twilight. “That was a good throw. I’d like to see what you can do with a proper throwing axe.”

            Callaina held up her hands. “My name’s Aurelia Callaina and I’m an Imperial bureaucrat. Actually, I was the tax assessor in Helgen.”

            “Old Varius quit, huh?” Ria asked curiously.

            “He took religious vows. After seeing what passes for a tax system around here, I understand why.”

            Aela snickered. “Getting the Jarls to pay their fair share is like pulling tusks from an angry horker.”

            “At least they don’t send Morag Tong after you the way the Dunmer do,” Callaina said wryly. “And then there was the Argonian who paid in some disgusting liquor made from fermented eel’s blood.”

            “Argonian bloodwine,” Farkas said. “I drink it when I need a wound stitched.”

            “Truly, the courage of the Companions is beyond compare,” Callaina observed dryly.

            Aela laughed. “An Imperial bureaucrat with a sense of humour! Let’s get you to the Jarl then.”

            They stopped by the farmhouse and knocked on the door, a handsome older Nibenese man opening it. “The giant’s dead,” Aela announced.

            “Thank the gods,” the farmer replied, reaching into his beltpouch and pulling out a generous bag of coin. “The crops are bad enough with this unseasonal chill. I didn’t need that damn thing trampling them.”

            “Giants make good fertiliser so you’ll have the best cabbages in Whiterun once more,” Aela assured him with a smile. “Gods with you, Severio.”

            “And you, Companions. Thank you for the help.” The farmer touched his forelock and closed the door.

            “Good man,” Aela said quietly. “Come on, they’ll be closing the gates soon.”

            They passed a carrot-haired woman laughing with a dark-haired man, both Nords, about some jester up the road with a coffin and Khajiit merchants offering their wares in a camp by the road. “Why aren’t the Khajiit in the marketplace?” Callaina asked Ria softly.

            “Because Nord law forbids their presence within city walls because they’re apparently all thieves,” the Nibenese girl replied dryly. “Ri’saad and his caravans are a good deal more honest than some of the Nord nobility I’ve met. They trade fairly with the Companions.”

            Callaina shook her head. In Cyrodiil, while the Khajiit were eyed suspiciously when things went missing, they were never outright banned from the cities.

            The gate guards tried to stop the Companions from entering on account of dragons. Callaina eyed the crumbling walls and said bluntly, “The dragons will just fly over the damned gate and set everything on fire. That’s what happened at Helgen.”

            “You were at Helgen? The Jarl will want to speak to you.” The gates were quickly unlocked.

            Whiterun, even in the gloom of early evening, was the quintessential Nord town as depicted in the storybooks. Crowned by the fortress called Dragonsreach, it was populated with inhabitants almost as cosmopolitan as Bravil or Skingrad, Bosmer and Dunmer mixing with Nords, Bretons, both Colovians and Nibenese and even several Redguards. Aela picked her way through the crowds unerringly, explaining to Callaina that the bottom district was called the Plain, the residential one was called the Wind and the one in which Dragonsreach was called the Cloud. Everything was neat and clean, though Callaina could see the beginnings of the same stark bones and hollow eyes in some of the poorer citizens she’d seen so often in Helgen.

            “How bad is the civil war making things for Whiterun?” she asked Aela. “I know the Jarl’s neutral.”

            “Balgruuf knew trouble was coming and laid aside gold for it but with trade reduced to a trickle of peddlers and the Khajiit, things are getting lean,” the Companion replied. “Ulfric is strangling the trade from Morrowind and the Empire controls everything else.”

            “Skyrim’s a mess and I can understand why some are driven to join Ulfric,” Callaina agreed. “Half the nobility’s evading their taxes, the mercantile class is being bled dry and the citizens are getting pissy at being double-taxed.”

            “Balgruuf has said much the same thing,” Ria confirmed. “Ulfric doesn’t have a damned clue on how to run a country. You should see Windhelm.”

            “Ria.” There was warning in Aela’s voice. “Companions are politically neutral.”

            “I know, just…” Ria shrugged helplessly.

            “I understand. Both sides have their virtues and flaws.” They reached steps that led up to an overturned boat. “Njada’s related to Galmar Stone-Fist and we have the Grey-Manes in our ranks, all of whom support the Stormcloaks. But we can’t take sides because of our honour. It may fall to us to negotiate peace.”

            The huntress turned to Callaina. “You’re welcome to visit Jorrvaskr any time, Korlaina. I think you’re wasted in the Imperial tax service.”

            “From a Companion, that’s high praise,” was Callaina’s reply. “But… I have duties elsewhere. I would like to speak to you about what’s known about dragons though. Companions probably fought them centuries ago, right?”

            “Why would a tax collector care about dragons?” Farkas rumbled.

            “Because we had a prophecy in Bruma about dragons and…” Callaina shrugged helplessly. “The Blades, who knew what it meant, are dead. I’m sure Akatosh is choosing some mighty hero worthy of the Companions to be Dragonborn but someone needs to find out what they can – and it might as well be me.”

            Aela nodded slowly. “I think there’s someone you’ll want to speak to in Jorrvaskr.”

            “Why?”

            “Because he’s the last of the Blades and his name is Irkand Aurelius. If anyone can figure out how to kill dragons, it’s him.”


	3. Dragonsreach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

 

The Jarl was sitting down to dinner when Callaina entered Dragonsreach. She’d taken some time to sit under the dead tree in the middle of the Wind District and process everything that happened over the past day or so before climbing the stairs to the great fortress. Her mind needed to be clear and her words coherent to be taken seriously.

            A Dunmer woman, wiry and whip-lean, intercepted the Bruma Nord before she got past the first flight of stairs. “The Jarl isn’t holding audience at the moment,” she said in her low dark accent.

            “I know. But I have news from Helgen.” Callaina met the woman’s scarlet eyes, unbothered by the drawn steel sword.

            “News from Helgen? That explains why the guards let you in.” She sheathed her weapon and eyed the tax collector warily. “Make one wrong move and you’re dead.”

            Callaina followed the huscarl up to the high table where Jarl Balgruuf, a rangy older blond man with a striking resemblance to Ralof, ate with a stolid-looking Colovian, a broad-shouldered warrior and three well-dressed children who acted like brats. The silverware was Redguard in style and the alcohol cosmopolitan, but the food itself was limited, indicating that even the Jarl was feeling the pinch thanks to the war. “We have a survivor from Helgen,” the Dunmer announced.

            Balgruuf turned a shrewd ice-blue gaze in her direction and Callaina curtsied to him as she would any Count of Cyrodiil. Up close, he had threads of silver in his braided hair and long goatee, eyes crinkling in the corners as he smiled approvingly. Whether that was to her manners or her looks remained to be seen. “So you survived Helgen,” he rumbled in a rich tenor.

            “Yes, Jarl. I was in the Keep when the dragon attacked,” Callaina confirmed. “If it wasn’t for a Legionnaire, I wouldn’t have made it out alive.”

            “Whatever you can tell us will be useful.” He nodded to one of the servants, who brought a chair to the end of the table. “Help yourself to some meat and drink. I suspect it’s a long tale.”

            Callaina obeyed with an inclination of the head, sitting down next to the Colovian. “Not so long a tale, Jarl Balgruuf. My name is Aurelia Callaina and I was the new tax assessor at Helgen.”

            “That’s right, Varius took religious vows,” Balgruuf observed. “You’re a Nord?”

            “Bruma Nord, aye.” Callaina laid the cotton napkin handed to her across her lap. The napkin was better quality than her dress. “Kreathling mother, Colovian Redguard father.”

            “Ah.” Balgruuf’s tone held shades of meaning she couldn’t decipher. “So Helgen?”

            Callaina allowed herself a single gulp of good West Wealde red wine in a silver goblet before responding. “As I said, not so long a tale. Ulfric Stormcloak was on the verge of being executed when a black dragon paid a call-“

            Balgruuf’s eyes narrowed. “Ulfric Stormcloak was there?”

            “Yes. His henchman Ralof held me back as he Shouted down Captain Iulia and Auxiliary Gjuki before running them through while they were still on the ground.” Callaina shuddered. “Ulfric stopped Ralof from killing me for whatever reason.”

            “You’re related to the Kreathling Jarls,” Balgruuf said grimly. “His wife is Dengeir’s only daughter. It would be kinslaughter if not a fair battle.”

            “Ulfric is a traitor but he abides by our code of honour,” the warrior agreed.

            “Until he can find a loophole to exploit,” the Dunmer said darkly, taking the seat next to Balgruuf. “My Jarl, don’t I recall the Stormsword-“

            “Getting back to the story, Quaestor Hadvar helped get me through the Keep and took me to Riverwood after I suffered magicka drain,” Callaina said hastily. She didn’t want to discuss her familial connections at the moment. “I volunteered to carry word to you, Jarl, because the main families of the village were arguing over who should be sent.”

            “The World-Eater returns and they squabble because, like so many clans in Whiterun, they are divided,” Balgruuf rumbled angrily. “Hadvar is Legate Rikke’s right-hand man in the field and Ralof is Galmar Stone-Fist’s. In Whiterun itself, we have the Battle-Borns for the Empire and Grey-Manes for the Stormcloaks.”

            “’When the Snow Tower lies sundered, kingless, bleeding’,” Callaina murmured. “’The World-Eater wakes, and the Wheel turns upon the Last Dragonborn’.”

            “Yes,” Balgruuf confirmed with a sigh. “I studied for a few years with the Greybeards. I know the prophecy and saw the World-Eater soar across my Hold.”

            The Jarl gestured to her plate. “Eat, Callaina. I can offer hospitality for the night and we can talk some more in the morning.”

            The servant ladled some thick meaty stew on the plate and Callaina took the hint. It was delicious and gamy – too fatty to be rabbit, maybe venison? Colovians heavily spiced their venison stew whereas this one tasted of vegetables, salt and garlic. _Strongly_ of garlic. She ate much more than she usually did and accompanied it with that decent red. No one engaged her in conversation, which was a gift from the gods after the past day or so.

            Warm, full and slightly tipsy, she was guided by a servant to a small but comfortable guest room. She remembered little after stripping down to her shift and dropping into the low soft bed covered in rich furs.

…

“Anyone with eyes to see can tell her lineage.”

            Irileth, as always, hit the nail on the head. Balgruuf toyed with a goblet of the red wine that sent Aurelia Callaina to bed, nodding to his huscarl in agreement. “Aye, Irileth. She’s Sigdrifa’s daughter from the first marriage the Kreathlings don’t like to talk about.”

            “Because Arius Aurelius was a traitor to the Empire,” Proventus Avenicci said bluntly. “You’d think Dengeir would have appreciated the Emperor’s forbearance in not having his clan executed after everything.”

            The Jarl of Whiterun sighed. Proventus, for all his cleverness with coin, had no understanding of the Nord mind despite living amongst them since the end of the Great War. “Arius Aurelius was a fool. But the rumours about his bloodline…”

            “The Septims are dead, my lord,” Proventus said firmly. “Yes, we all agree that the Aurelii are descended from the Hero of Kvatch. But I cannot see how a gentle, scholarly man like Martin Septim would have found a bareknuckle Nord berserker attractive enough to bed, let alone sire a child on her.”

            “Live as long as I have and you’ll see many stranger pairings,” Irileth observed dryly. “I suspect that her presence in Helgen was no accident, Balgruuf. Siddgeir is a wastrel with Thalmor strings attached and Dengeir a senile old fool trying to regain the lost days of the Septim Empire through Ulfric. Sigdrifa and her sons…”

            “Are traitors and therefore ineligible,” Proventus finished. “If Callaina is a provincial tax assessor, that means she’s both competent and trustworthy. Titus Mede doesn’t throw away tools just because they come from a questionable forebear. Not if they’re useful.”

            Balgruuf leaned back in his throne. The Bruma Nord was a handsome woman with exquisite manners despite the plain dress she wore. Sigdrifa’s dramatic colouring of coal-black hair and vivid turquoise eyes paired with chiselled Nordic features but for the aristocratic Colovian nose, her Redguard sire and Imperial grandsire giving her smooth olive-bronze skin.

            “And that is one of many reasons half of Skyrim is rebelling,” he finally said. “Politics will have to wait. Irileth, send men to Riverwood. I don’t need those idiots Ralof and Hadvar fighting the civil war there and if dragons attack, we’ll have soldiers there. Send reinforcements to Rorikstead as well.”

            “The Jarls of Falkreath, Haafingar and the Reach will assume we’ve joined Ulfric’s side and are about to attack,” Proventus said unctuously.

            “Fuck the other Jarls,” Balgruuf said bluntly. “There are _dragons_ attacking my Hold and people.”

            He leaned forward and looked at the silent Hrongar. “Find out how much it would cost to hire a Companion or two to accompany Aurelia Callaina to Bleakfalls Barrow tomorrow. She knows the Prophecy of the Dragonborn and her grandfather was the Blades Grandmaster. Farengar knows a few things but she might recall more.”

            “Irkand Aurelius will react interestingly to one of his lost family coming out of the woodwork,” Proventus noted dryly.

            Balgruuf winced. “I don’t need more dead Thalmor in my Hold…”

            Irileth smirked. “If we find any, it means the old man is slipping.”

            “That doesn’t reassure me, Irileth.”

            “I wasn’t trying to.”

…

“A fine hunt!”

            Aela had shifted from her werewolf form into the human one, licking Altmer blood from her lips. If she hadn’t been mated to Skjor… Ah well. Irkand never bothered to linger on what he couldn’t have when it was better to focus on what he could.

            “At least this shrine will be left alone for a while,” Skjor agreed once shifted. “Njada and the twins should have somewhere safe to worship now.”

            Irkand, having gorged himself on Thalmor hearts, had to wait for the bloodlust to run its course before assuming his human form. “The twins are adamant, then?”

            “Vilkas has made the decision to obey Kodlak and Farkas will follow him,” Aela sighed. “And you?”

            “I am a hunter and a killer. Hircine understands me in ways that Talos never did.” There was a purity in the hunt that Irkand never found elsewhere, not in meditation or war or the art of murder. The Companion pack, despite their occasional diverging of opinions on what was honourable, understood that and gave him plenty of excuses. “But…”

            “But?”

            “If dragons have returned, I will have to be a Blade again until Alduin is banished. That oath precedes all others.”

            “Understandable. Your niece feels the same way.” Aela leaned over and began to loot the dead Thalmor of their elven weapons and valuables. “Well, she remembers the prophecy and thinks someone might as well research what they can.”

            Only Kodlak, Skjor and Aela knew of Irkand’s niece. Sigdrifa and Rustem never spoke of the child thought lost in the Bruma Purge. Delphine refused to acknowledge his presence in Riverwood and Esbern was missing. Everyone else who knew her were dead or buried.

            Irkand’s mouth quirked to the side. “Tax collector. I’m a little surprised Mede didn’t have her executed.”

            “Too useful. Besides, he might have feared the Madgoddess’ wrath if he exterminated _all_ the Aurelii,” Skjor pointed out. “But you have a living relative who isn’t the Stormsword.”

            “Sigdrifa was my sister-in-law and I have a certain amount of obligation to her because of that,” Irkand reminded him mildly. “It will be good to see my niece again but I am certain she has changed much.”

            “I think she’d make a good Companion,” Aela said, handing a sack of valuables to Skjor for carrying. As the pack’s chief scout, she couldn’t be weighed down. “She threw a gladius and downed a giant.”

            “A giant already wounded by three Companions,” Irkand pointed out. “Callaina was never adept at combat training.”

            The huntress shook her head but shifted to the werewolf form. With only three female Companions to eight male ones, Irkand suspected she would hold a potential Shield-Sister to much lower standards than she would a Shield-Brother.

            He took his hunting form and allowed himself to lose himself in the purest expression of power. Callaina might have been better off lost at Cloud Ruler Temple because the storm her very existence would start could be the straw that broke Skyrim’s back.

…

“I think you’re overheating the Spriggan sap,” Callaina said calmly to the court wizard as he threw an annoyed glance at her. “That’s not counting the soul gem outside of a shielded pentacle…”

            The mage, a slightly plump Nord with impressive sideburns, corrected the issues before looking back at her with a little more respect in his brown gaze. “It’s rare that the Jarl sends me someone skilled in the arcane arts. What’s your specialty?”

            “Alteration but I’m somewhere between Apprentice and Adept as recognised by the Synod with a few Apprentice-level Destruction spells,” Callaina admitted wryly. “I’m a bit of an amateur alchemist and enchanter though. Yours?”

            “Adept at Destruction and Conjuration,” he said proudly. “So, given your arcane skills, I assume you’re here to help with the Bleakfalls Barrow project?”

            “The Jarl seems to think I should go delving into an old ruin infested with undead and fetch something, yes,” Callaina observed ruefully. “He was a little unclear on what it was though.”

            Farengar smirked. “The Jarl has little talent for sorcery. We’re looking for the Dragonstone.”

            “I was wondering at the connection to dragons. I know the old cult sites have the dragon heads on the arches,” Callaina said. “So, do you know anything about what I’ll face there? The Jarl’s said he’ll hire a Companion or two but I like to be prepared.”

            “Likely garden-variety draugr – zombies as you Colovians call them – and some champion warrior of the Dragon Cult,” Farengar responded cheerfully. “Fire works best on them and some are capable of frost magic or even Shouts.”

            “Oh. Lovely. A tomb full of undead Ulfrics,” Callaina said sarcastically.

            “Likely only the champion and a few senior cultists. Most will simply use simple weapons against you.” Farengar tapped his chin thoughtfully. “You could visit the Temple of Arkay and get Andurs to bless your weapons.”

            “That’s… no bad idea. Undead of any form are anathema to the Priests of Arkay.” Callaina smiled at Farengar. “Thanks for the advice.”

            “No problem. You’re helping my research,” the court mage said with a wave of his hand. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to return to my work.”

            “You see how important this is,” Balgruuf rumbled from the doorway to the mage’s workshop. “Do this and Whiterun will be in your debt.”

            “I’m doing this because it needs to be done,” Callaina told him. She wasn’t happy at having this job dumped on her despite her vow to research dragons. Where was the Dragonborn already?

            “According to Farengar, the other Jarls are more worried about the civil war than the dragons,” Balgruuf said grimly. “Alduin will devour us all, Stormcloak and Imperial alike, if he’s not stopped.”

            He handed her a silver medallion. “I’m told you’re something of a spellsword. This is enchanted to increase the bite of your sword and Destruction spells.”

            “Thank you, Jarl Balgruuf,” Callaina responded. “It will come in handy.”

            “Find the Dragonstone and you’ll help us all,” the Jarl said simply. “Now go. We cannot delay. The Companions will meet you in front of Jorrvaskr.”

            Callaina curtsied and turned for the door. Today was going to be another bad day.

            Much to her relief, Farkas and a skinnier version of him waited for her at the steps of Jorrvaskr. Her feelings towards her family were too ambiguous for her to cope with seeing her uncle just yet. Abandonment had a habit of doing that. “Hello Korli,” greeted the giant Companion. “This is my brother Vilkas. He knows everything about the Companions including the dragons we’ve fought.”

            “Honoured to meet you, Sir Vilkas,” she said politely. Vilkas had smouldering grey eyes and a twist of impatience to his sensuous lips where nothing but goodhearted cheer radiated from Farkas. Both were rather handsome in different ways. “I’m Aurelia Callaina-“

            “I know who you are,” the Companion interrupted harshly. “Do you want to speak to your uncle before we leave?”

            “Honestly, no,” she replied flatly. “I spent a good deal of my life thinking my family were dead. It’s going to take some time to get used to the idea that they’re alive and apparently didn’t give enough of a damn to come looking for me after Bruma.”

            “Irkand himself is having trouble adjusting to the idea,” Vilkas agreed. “He is… a difficult man.”

            “Coming from _you_ that says a lot,” Callaina observed dryly. “Seeing as you’re the glowering storm cloud around here.”

            Farkas snickered. “She’s right, you know.”

            The lean twin cracked a brief smile at his brother and it transformed his face. “Someone has to make sure the whelps behave. You’re too easy on them.”

            “And you’re too hard sometimes,” Farkas told him. “We better go. Jarl said this was important and we don’t know when another dragon will come.”

            _Going tomb raiding with a pair of too-handsome twins and my family running around. As if dragons weren’t bad enough…_


	4. Bleakfalls Barrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Trigger warning for arachnophobia and mentions of collaboration, child abandonment and human sacrifice. So far romantic contenders are Farkas, Vilkas and Balgruuf – feel free to comment or make suggestions in the comments below. I also believe the Companions would keep extensive records as part of their history, so mentions of that in here too.

 

“Bandits. No one mentioned bandits. Is there anyone in Skyrim who’s actually a law-abiding taxpayer?”

            “We are,” Farkas assured Korli, who’d lifted the hem of her homespun dress to dodge the pool of blood from two dead bandits cut into a few pieces by him and Vilkas. Irkand’s niece was white-lipped and shaky from the sudden burst of violence. “But these are probably deserters.”

            “No doubt.” She sighed, mouth tight. “I want to go back to my crappy little desk in Bruma and tally bottles of bloodwine on my abacus, not trudge through undead-infested tombs.”

            Behind her Vilkas rolled his eyes. “And I’d rather be running whelps through drills, not following a tax collector around because she might remember something on dragons.”

            “So we both agree we’d rather be elsewhere. Since we can’t be, having agreed to take on this unpleasant task – for which you and your brother are being paid, I believe – let’s go deeper into the undead bunny hole.” Korli ignored the bandits’ corpses and ventured down the ramp, leaving the twins to loot what might be useful. Some coin and stolen Imperial food rations, mostly. At the moment, every bit helped.

            When they found the trapped Dunmer about to be eaten by the giant frostbite spider, Korli’s magic came into play as she tossed firebolts at it, her gladius in the other. As he’d noted when she killed the giant, her ability with thrown weapons was almost supernatural, a gift which extended to magic spells. Farkas paused a moment too long, the old fear of monster spiders running through his veins, and she plunged the gladius into the creature’s head with an adequate show of technique. Descended as she was from Redguard and Nord alike, basic skill with one-handed weapons was unavoidable, even for a desk-bound bureaucrat like herself.

            “You alright?” Vilkas asked gently as she went to speak to the web-trapped Dunmer.

            “Sorry,” he muttered. Damn milk drinker he was, scared of spiders and letting the person he was hired to protect kill one.

            “You don’t have to be.” Vilkas patted his shoulder, eyeing the slender female. “At least she’s not a complete burden. The way Irkand talked about her, you’d think she was clumsy as a horker after a three-day drinking binge.”

            Farkas scowled. “She’s not clumsy. I’d like to give her some throwing axes and see what she can do.”

            “Javelins,” Vilkas advised professionally. “Against dragons, javelins would work better.”

            Korli cut the Dunmer free and he bolted for the depths of the tomb, shouting about how no one was going to take the power of Bleakfalls Barrow from him. Vilkas sighed and unlimbered his greatsword again. Idiot elf was going to wake up all the draugr so Farkas did the same.

            After clearing the first room of draugr who were busy tearing the Dunmer bandit apart – and looting them for ancient coins that could be melted down into ingots – Vilkas laid a hand on Korli’s shoulder. “Let me teach you some basic strikes and blocks now while we have the time,” he suggested. “If you’re half as talented as your uncle, I think you’ll pick them up in no time.”

            “Won’t that wake up more draugr?” she asked, looking into the next chamber of alcoves.

            “No. Draugr have poor hearing. The chronicles say that they sense a living person’s energy and awaken to defend whatever they were set to guard. Oh, and drink your blood.” Vilkas liked to deliver the worst part in a deadpan voice. “With the draugr, they only have a few combat techniques, so you don’t need to be a master swordsman to defeat them. Just stay calm and cut them to pieces.”

            “Or set them on fire. Though admittedly my magicka isn’t the strongest,” she admitted. “Fine, let’s do this.”

            Vilkas picked up an abandoned draugr sword and shield. “Don’t be afraid to hit me. I can take it.”

            Farkas busied himself with making sure he’d found all the good loot for them. Vilkas could be an arsehole but he was a good teacher. And Korli would learn quickly – she had the innate hand-eye coordination, balance and grace to handle the sword, though she’d probably make for a better spear-maiden.

            An hour later (and two alarms when draugr wandered in only to be hit by the massive spiked door), Korli was holding her own in the basic patterns that lay at the heart of Nord swordsmanship. Vilkas looked almost impressed but that was probably a trick of the light.

            “I would invest in some light leather armour too,” the arms master of the Companions suggested. “Now let’s go. We’ve got the rest of the tomb ahead of us.”

            Korli rolled one shoulder before rubbing it, nodding. “Agreed. Sooner done, sooner out of here.”

…

Callaina switched from firebolts to Oakflesh, her priest-blessed gladius shearing through withered muscle and ancient bone and the spell protecting her skin. Most of her ‘training’ had been observational or at the hands of bored drill Quaestors at the outposts she’d been assigned to, not direct one-on-one at the hands of a professional. Vilkas might be a prick but he was very good at what he did.

            The draugr, even the ones who shot ice spells, were easier to kill than the bandits. How many had deserted from Legion or Stormcloak not because they were scum but because they’d been conscripted into a war none of them asked for? Poverty bred desperation which bred crime – she saw it in Bruma. It eroded honour, driving neighbour to report neighbour as Talos worshipper to the Thalmor. It made people concerned more with survival and less with helping others.

            Draugr were undead horrors who could be ‘killed’ cleanly and without moral quandary.

            They reached the puzzle door to the central chamber and she used the Golden Claw she’d found on the dead Dunmer’s body to open it. The cave was open to the sky, bringing a welcome blast of fresh cold air and slice of ice-blue, and a sarcophagus sat before a wall carved with Dragonish text. A thick metal-bound chest, tarnished with age, was next to the coffin.

            “Grave goods,” Vilkas said with satisfaction. “All the great Dragon Cult members were buried with rich offerings.”

            “You regularly rob the dead then?” Callaina asked coolly.

            “The cultists unleashed pain and fear on our people that echoes to this very day in the old legends,” Vilkas responded grimly. “Each of the draugr you laid to rest was probably an unwilling sacrifice. Cult tombs are fair game.”

            “Some of the old chiefs and kings were buried with loyal followers to give them an army in Sovngarde,” Farkas added, walking over to examine the Word Wall curiously. “But the stories say that was voluntary. We try to leave those tombs alone.”

            Callaina sighed and rummaged in her pack for parchment and charcoal. “I want to take a tracing of that wall. If the king-draugr wakes up, keep him off my back?”

            “If we must,” Vilkas grumbled.

            Dragonish script was carved into the stone and Callaina ran her gaze across it. “Here lies the guardian, keeper of dragonstone, and a force of unending rage and darkness,” she murmured. Force in particular glowed blue-edged gold in her vision, the word drawing her gaze until it encompassed her entire world. Darkness gathered at the edges and the word – Fus – vibrated through her very being.

            She didn’t even notice the king-draugr until Farkas turned into a _fucking werewolf_ and downed it in one massive swipe of his claws just before it could stab her in the back.

            When the Companion turned back into his human form, he looked sheepish. Vilkas’ hand was on his greatsword and threat was in every line of his posture.

            “Uh, could you not mention that to anyone?” the giant warrior asked hopefully. “I shouldn’t have done it but the draugr would have hurt you.”

            “I suppose suggesting you deserve a ham bone and a pat on the head for being a good boy wouldn’t go down well?” Callaina asked, trying to defuse the situation with humour. It would be an easy thing for them to claim she’d fallen to the draugr and have their words as Companions of Jorrvaskr to back them up.

            “We’re not dogs!” Vilkas barked.

            “I’ll take that as a no,” Callaina muttered. The Hero-Twins were werewolves. It explained a lot. Maybe.

            Farkas regarded her anxiously with quicksilver eyes. “Please, Korli? We’re looking for a cure. We don’t want to hurt people.”

            “I won’t say anything, not the least because you saved my life,” she assured him. “I… was entranced by the words on the wall. I don’t know how to explain it but I translated it. I’m sorry I put you in that position.”

            Vilkas sheathed his greatsword. “I’ll accept your word of honour, Korlaina. You haven’t been the burden I feared you’d be.”

            “I’ll take that as a compliment,” she said dryly. “Let’s find this Dragonstone and go home. I’m exhausted and want a good drink.”

            “Thank you,” Farkas said softly.

…

Vilkas leafed through the small book of notes he’d made from the Companions’ archives. On discovering why Balgruuf had hired them, Kodlak had given him full access to the rows of books and runic tablets, even those normally reserved for the Harbingers. There wasn’t just information on fighting dragons that might be useful, there were descriptions of the various Dovahkiinne – Dragonborn – who’d joined the heirs of Ysgramor.

            Callaina was tallying up the loot using an improvised abacus with Farkas advising her on what would best be sold in Riverwood. It turned out the local shopkeeper Lucan had found the golden claw key to the puzzle door a few years ago, which the bandits had gotten wind of and stolen because everyone knew draugr barrows held great treasures and even power. The man had offered coin from his last shipment but the tax collector talked him into a generous discount on whatever they chose to trade instead. Vilkas suspected a half-decent set of mage robes might be included because she was a gifted Alteration mage and used Oakflesh to harden her skin instead of wearing armour.

            “Any Nord smith worth his salt can smelt weapons into ingots,” Farkas rumbled as he sorted the iron and steel weapons looted from the bandits on the way back to Riverwood. “None of this crap’s worth keeping intact. No runes of ownership or a maker’s mark that indicates an heirloom weapon. The iron will help Alvor and Eorlund will want the steel.”

            “Iron to Alvor and steel to Eorlund. Got it,” Callaina confirmed, scribbling something down in a book.

            “Bandit armour’s rarely worth salvaging unless it’s something like steel plate or forged from rare materials,” he continued. “Most bandits don’t take care of their stuff. Uh, why are you writing stuff down?”

            “Keeping track of the tax,” she responded, dipping the quill in the ink. “It’s better to do it as you go than let it slide until you’re hit with a major debt every Last Seed.”

            If anyone knew how to pay tax, it would be the tax collector. Vilkas had to admit he was amused she was worried about it when dragons roamed the sky. That was Colovians for you – focusing on the trees and missing the forest.

            “We tend to take rare weapons, some armour, food, coin and gems back to Jorrvaskr because they’re worth hauling,” Farkas finally said. “Part of the reason we’re cheap compared to the Fighters Guild is because we generally take loot from our enemies, whereas the Guild tends not to.”

            “Makes sense. Finished goods, unless of rare quality, are generally taxed at a lesser rate than raw materials or coin,” Callaina agreed. “Whichever leader of the Companions came up with that was a clever person.”

            “It was Kodlak, our current Harbinger,” Farkas told her. “And he’s very clever.”

            “I look forward to meeting him.” She sighed and set the abacus aside. “There, it’s sorted.”

            “And we have the Dragonstone,” Vilkas said, looking up from his book. “Farengar’s smarter than people give him credit for. It’s a map of Skyrim that – I think – shows where dragons are buried.”

            “We could warn the Jarls,” Callaina said. “If they can put guards on them or even magical wards…”

            “Not enough men or mages,” Vilkas replied. “And certainly not enough Companions. With so many Hold guards engaged in the civil war, we’ve been picking up the load.”

            “I don’t suppose a truce could be made?” Callaina looked down at the Dragonstone next to Vilkas on the table. The inn was practically abandoned at this time of day and Orgnar just didn’t care about what went on so long as nothing was bleeding and/or on fire.

            “Ulfric might listen because it’s the World-Eater,” Vilkas said. “You know Tullius better than us. Would he do so?”

            Callaina was already shaking her head. “The Imperial Nutcracker – forgive me, the Emperor’s Hammer – is a hard-headed veteran soldier who doesn’t believe in things like prophecy. He worships Julianos in His aspects of logic and rationality.”

            “When _Ulfric’s_ more reasonable than an Imperial…” Vilkas muttered in amazement. Then he looked at Callaina. “Why do they call him the Imperial Nutcracker?”

            “Because he’s the one who breaks open tough situations,” she answered. “Ulfric’s managed to piss off Titus Mede enough that the Bruma Fourth has been sent to support the Skyrim Legions. The last action they saw was against those Alik’r raids into the West Wealde a few years ago.”

            She sighed. “We’ll take this to Farengar and make it Jarl Balgruuf’s problem. The dragons have to take precedence.”

            “The Companions might be able to help some,” Vilkas said, tapping his notes. “We need to find the Dragonborn, right?”

            “Yes. I’d have thought Akatosh would have revealed them by now.”

            “According to the archives, a Dragonborn is a person of great will and personal strength, be they mage, warrior or rogue. Most of the Dovahkiinne pick up new skills quickly and achieve mastery of their chosen path that lesser mortals can only dream of.”

            “From what I recall, the Blades said the same thing,” Callaina agreed. “I suspect old Esbern, our loremaster, fed me more information than I realised. I liked to listen to his stories when I was a child because…”

            She trailed off, shaking her head. “What else do the records say?”

            “That they must be held to the path of honour or they will become monsters,” Vilkas said sombrely. “Sometimes the Companions had to kill Dragonborn.”

            “Territorial, ruthless, prone to using force to solve their issues – there was a bit of a belief in my family that Uncle Irkand might be Dragonborn because he fits the profile.”

            Farkas scowled, echoing Vilkas’ own expression. “I hope not. No offence, Korli, but your uncle’s a glorified killer who wouldn’t know what honour was if we tattooed the meaning of it to his forehead and made him stare at a mirror for a year.”

            Despite her own ambivalence towards her family, the Bruma Nord looked startled. “Then why is he with the Companions?”

            “Because better we have a leash on him than the Dark Brotherhood,” Vilkas said sourly. “At least I think that’s Kodlak’s reasoning.”

            “He was always kind to me,” Callaina murmured. “But… you may not be wrong. How a man treats his kin can be very different to how he treats others.”

            She glanced away. “None of them looked for me. Even when I wound up in an Imperial orphanage and then as one of Titus Mede’s own ‘wards’. Several heirs of indicted families, too young to be executed without outrage and possibly useful so long as we behaved. Unable to claim our blood rights and not bloody likely to rise in Imperial service in case we get a taste for power and repeat the sins of our fathers. I was there the whole time and not a single damned person came looking for me. They all acted like I was dead and went on with their lives.”

            Those big turquoise eyes returned to the grey ones of the twins. “How do I forgive that?”

            Vilkas didn’t have an answer for that but Farkas did. “You live your life with honour and glory,” the giant rumbled. “How they react should determine your response to them.”

            Callaina’s smile was sad. “Honour and glory mean very different things in very different cultures, Farkas.”

            “Not that I’ve noticed. Everyone values keeping your word, not showing cowardice in the face of an enemy, giving the dead their due and a willingness to help others.” The big man’s finger poked Callaina’s chest lightly. “You’ve shown all that.”

            _And Irkand hasn’t._ Vilkas could read the unspoken comment in his twin’s voice. Irkand’s honour was… flexible at best. Skjor and Aela had embraced the beast blood but becoming a werewolf had just revealed the Redguard as the predator he already was.

            “My most significant ancestress was a madwoman and my grandfather was a traitor,” Callaina said slowly. “How can I do anything but try to show some integrity? It’s the only way I can rebel against my family!”

            She rubbed her eyes. “Look, should we rest here or go back to Whiterun? I’m tired and I honestly want to get drunk.”

            “Go to bed,” Farkas advised gently. “Getting drunk in this kind of mood’s not a good idea.”

            “You’re a very wise man, Farkas.” Callaina smiled up at the warrior before going to pay for their rooms.

            “Never been called that before,” Farkas noted softly. “Do you think she’ll say anything?”

            “No,” Vilkas assured him. “She’s proven herself a woman of honour.”

            Farkas sighed in relief. “I like her.”

            “She’s not as bad as some,” Vilkas agreed. “But she brings many complications, brother.”

            “All people do, Vilkas. It’s just the way it is.”


	5. The Hero of Prophecy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

 

“I expected you yesterday,” Farengar told Callaina as she dumped the Dragonstone on his cluttered desk.

            “Pardon me for choosing to stay overnight at Riverwood,” she retorted acidly. “Here’s your dragon burial map and a copy of relevant notes from the Companions’ archives about dragons.”

            The court wizard’s eyes lit up. “Thank you! This will be most useful. Now your work ends and mine begins – the work of the mind, sadly overrated in Skyrim.”

            “Oh, I expect to be kept apprised of your research,” Callaina responded dryly. “The more minds, the better on a mess like this.”

            “Have you considered joining the Mages’ College up at Winterhold?” Farengar asked seriously as he cleared some scrolls from his desk to lay out some books with titles like ‘There Be Dragons’, ‘Alduin Is Real’, ‘The Alduin/Akatosh Dichotomy’ and an old faded journal printed with runes.

            “I have some skill with magic but my intelligence works better in the bureaucracy than the arcane,” Callaina admitted ruefully. “Or I would have risen beyond Apprentice in the Synod.”

            “You didn’t get beyond Apprentice in the Synod because of Imperial politics,” Farengar countered. “The College is neutral whereas the Synod tends to spend more time puckering up to Titus Mede than actually researching the mysteries of Aetherius.”

            “And the College of Whispers holds creepy parties in abandoned tombs while wondering why they don’t have many friends,” Callaina agreed wryly. “After Bleakfalls Barrow, I’ve had my share of necromancy.”

            “Yes. Draugr aren’t my favourite creatures to deal with.” Farengar shuddered faintly. “Go collect your reward from the Jarl and we’ll talk later.”

            “Farengar!” Irileth, the Dunmer huscarl, ran into the room. “A dragon has been sighted near the western watchtower!”

            “How amazing!” Farengar sounded as giddy as a boy receiving his first training sword. “How big was it?”

            “I’d take this a bit more seriously if I were you,” Irileth said dryly before glancing to Callaina. “I think you should come too. Of us all, you have the most experience with dragons.”

            And that was how Callaina found herself in front of a map-table with Balgruuf, Hrongar, Irileth, Farengar and a scared-looking guard. “We should see if any Companions are free,” she said. “If Farkas and Vilkas are anything to go by, they’re more than capable of bringing down a dragon.”

            “It’s a matter of coin,” Balgruuf said reluctantly. “I can’t afford to hire everyone in Jorrvaskr.”

            “I’m sure honour and glory will get their attention. To fight a dragon…” Callaina shrugged and looked to the guard. “Was he big and black?”

            “No, ma’am,” the guard replied respectfully. “More of a bronzy colour.”

            “Good, it’s not everybody’s favourite World-Eater so we’ll have a chance.” Callaina took a deep breath. “Was he breathing fire?”

            “Yes, ma’am.”

            “Good, here’s to hoping basic elemental principles apply to dragons as they do to Daedric creatures.” She looked at Balgruuf wryly. “I already know you’re going to ask me to fight the dragon.”

            “You survived Helgen and Bleakfalls Barrow,” the Jarl responded calmly.

            “I survived because of big muscular Nords keeping me intact. I’m sure you understand why I’d like a few around while I’m slinging spells at the scaly bastard of a thing.”

            She only hoped the twins wouldn’t turn werewolf. That could be, ah, awkward.

            “Fine. You hire them, you pay them.” Balgruuf nodded to Irileth. “Gather as many guards as we can spare.”

            Callaina was already heading for the stairs. It was around noon so the Companions should be training outside or having lunch.

            Vilkas was running Ria and a white-haired Nord woman through some sword-and-shield techniques in the courtyard as she skidded to a halt. “Dragon at the west watchtower,” she panted. “Who’s up for bagging themselves an oversized lizard?”

            “You’re becoming quite the dragon hunter now,” Ria observed with a grin. “You should join us. We could use some more women around here.”

            “Thanks for the offer but I don’t think I could stand the sunshine of Vilkas’ countenance for more than a few hours at a time.” She grinned at the arms master, who glared at her. “I can’t pay the Companions in anything but honour and glory.”

            “And here I thought I’d killed one of everything in Skyrim,” the lean Nord observed, putting sword and shield on the rack. “What’s the tax on honour and glory, eh?”

            “Last one to the watchtower has to buy the drinks,” she told him.

            “And people doubt you’re a Nord.” Vilkas smirked slightly. “Ria, you’re still favouring your right arm so you’ll be staying here with Kodlak, Skjor and Torvar. Njada, round up Athis, Aela and Farkas. Oh and Irkand if you find his sorry Redguard-“

            “Skjor, Aela and I will be going,” interrupted a familiar oiled-silk voice from the porch as a stocky, olive-bronze man with close-cropped iron-grey hair descended to the courtyard, accompanied by Aela and a heavily armoured grey-ponytailed man who had to be Skjor. “You and Farkas went to the barrow and you know our laws.”

            “I’d prefer to have the Hero-Twins at my back if they’re rested,” Callaina said flatly. “I know they can be trusted not to abandon me.”

            It was a petty dig but one she couldn’t resist.

            “Pouting ill became you as a child and it does you less favour now as an adult,” Irkand said, not even looking in her direction. “Leave the art of fighting dragons to those who know their business.”

            “Good thing I’m one of the few who survived Helgen then,” Callaina informed her uncle. “Now shut up and treat me like an adult or stay at home with the other geezers.”

            Njada was grinning broadly. “I _like_ her.”

            “You would. She’s the Stormsword’s daughter from her first marriage.” Ria made her way into the meadhall as Njada, who was related to one of Ulfric’s generals, turned to look at Callaina.

            “I see the resemblance,” the Nord woman, who had the asymmetrical musculature of a shield-fighter, finally said.

            Callaina sighed. “My relationship with my family is complicated at the moment, shieldmaiden. The dragons are a greater priority.”

            “Agreed. I can fill you in on your mother when we toast to our victory.” Njada helped herself to the sword and shield Vilkas had put on the rack. “Let’s go – last one to the dragon buys the mead!”

            “That’s apparently the tax on honour and glory,” Vilkas told Aela dryly.

            “This is not a battle we should rush into,” Irkand said grimly. “Let the dragon gorge itself and when it is fat and lazy, we attack.”

            “If we don’t, that dragon will set the fields of Whiterun ablaze and Skyrim will starve,” Skjor murmured. “Old friend, this is one of those times where we _must_ rush into battle.”

            Callaina picked up the skirts of her homespun dress. She really needed to get a decent set of mage robes or at least enchant some new garments. “Don’t you want to be the first Blade since the days of the Dragonguard to help kill a dragon, Uncle?”

            “I will go, only because you haven’t developed any common sense since Cloud Ruler Temple and I’m therefore obliged to protect you.”

            In her childhood, Irkand had been her favourite uncle. Now, Callaina was beginning to sympathise with the Hero-Twins.

            “I’ve been protecting myself since Cloud Ruler Temple, Uncle, so worry about yourself.” She hiked her skirts to her knees and began to run. She’d wasted too much time arguing when a dragon was circling overhead.

…

“Has it ever occurred to you that you can be an arsehole sometimes?”

            Irkand trotted alongside Skjor, neither man winded by their heavy armour, as Aela loped ahead with her lupine grace. “Callaina is impetuous and careless. Quite frankly, she was spoilt as a child and I was one of those who indulged her the most.”

            “Farkas and Vilkas speak well of her,” Skjor replied. “Vilkas tells me she learned the Nine First Blows and Blocks of Ysgramor in an hour.”

            “Not to be offensive, old friend, but Nord swordsmanship is crude and rather basic. With her bloodlines, even Callaina could learn such techniques quickly.” Irkand, trained in the ways of an Akaviri fighter, felt he owed his friend honesty.

            “Make that an arsehole _most_ of the time.” Skjor looked up at the western watchtower where a dragon strafed the ruins with fire. “Let’s go. I’ve got no desire to buy the mead today and your taste in mead is almost as bad as your social skills.”

            Irkand ran faster. He despised alcohol and mead especially. They ran past Aela, who let out a vivid curse describing an impossible sexual scenario involving an Avatar of Hircine as she realised she’d be buying the mead.

            A slender figure in brown homespun with a halo of coal-black hair stood on the top of the tower, launching lightning bolts that did little more than dance over the dragon’s skin. Callaina’s desire to prove herself a ‘real Nord’ would be the death of her.

            Irileth commanded archers to bring the beast down, their arrows bouncing uselessly off the creature’s scales. The Dunmer’s cursing was almost as obscene as Aela’s.

            “Brit grah! I had forgotten what fine sport joorre provided!” the unnatural beast gloated as it soared overhead to strafe Athis with fire. Being Dunmer, the whelp brushed it off and retaliated with Shock spells. “Your deaths bring me honour.”

            “It won’t be us who dies today, wyrm!” Farkas roared. “Reckon you’ll make a nice pair of boots!”

            “I am Mirmulnir, joor. I would have the honour of your name,” the dragon retorted.

            “I am Farkas of the Companions and I’m gonna mount your head on my wall!”

            “Fah-Kaaz? You are Acquire-Cat?” Mirmulnir now just sounded confused. “You do not look like one of the cat-people.”

            Callaina had abandoned the lightning attacks and now stood, arms stretched out and her hands rising slowly. Rocks slowly floated in the air, glowing green with magicka as they were gathered into a tight whirlwind.

            “He’s one of the Bronne, the Nords,” she said through gritted teeth as the stones continued to rise. “The same people who put you in whatever grave Al-Du-In dug you out of – and the ones who will return you there!”

            Mirmulnir had just enough time to look upwards before a veritable hail of stones battered his head – and broke his wings. The dragon roared in agony but was no match for the Hero-Twins, who closed in and finished the kill before anyone else could.

            “DOVAHKIIN? NIID!”

            His last Shout was one of despair as soot-edged golden flame began to crack through his bronze scales and transform his flesh into contrails of light. Irkand closed his eyes, awaiting the final revelation of his destiny, the reason he’d survived so long – and felt nothing.

            Instead the light, the soul, the _destiny_ went to the sickly spoilt girl child who’d been the despair of her parents and the blot on her bloodline because of her lack of discipline. She Shouted and the force of the Word pushed through the air to stir the hair of those below.

            “This is a bigger joke than Skyrim’s tax system,” she said just before collapsing.


	6. The Gods Must Be Crazy (Or On Skooma)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warnings for mentions of misogyny, child abuse/neglect, adultery and emotional abuse.

 

When news reached Windhelm of the Dragonborn’s identity, Sigdrifa Stormsword surprised herself and everyone else by laughing gleefully. Ralof, unaware of Callaina’s relationship to her, stared at his Jarl’s wife with a slightly concerned expression, the kind that generally led to the nearest mind-healing priest being sent for. Ulfric’s thick eyebrows were somewhere near his hairline, Galmar Stone-Fist was rubbing his bearded chin thoughtfully and Yrsarald Thrice-Pierced looked between everyone with a raised eyebrow. “What does this mean for us?” Eastmarch’s Stormcloak commander asked pointedly.

            Once the merriment passed, Sigdrifa met his gaze with a sigh. “My daughter has every right to be bitter,” she said. “So I honestly don’t know.”

            “With what you told me about the Aurelii, Irkand must have a burr up his arse,” Ulfric observed with a hint of amusement.

            “I admit that’s why I laughed,” Sigdrifa admitted.

            “I rather thought it was.” Ulfric rubbed his long crooked nose. “She has a rather negative opinion of the Stormcloaks above and beyond Imperial propaganda because I killed two Legionnaires, presumably people she knew, in front of her.”

            “It’s more than that,” Ralof murmured. “She was angry that the Bruma Nords fought and died without any help from Skyrim, especially from you and the Thu’um, Ulfric.”

            The Jarl nodded slowly. “Not unreasonable on her part. If we had known about the Bruma rebels-“

            “What’s done is done,” Galmar growled. “I’m more worried about any allegiance to the Empire she might have. Irkand, for all his flaws, would never have fought for them. But she’s part of their bureaucracy – a tax collector!”

            “We can do nothing until the World-Eater is dead,” Ulfric rumbled. “And even then, I would prefer to wait until we have incontrovertible proof she’ll fight for the Legion before I order the death of my _stepdaughter_.”

            He leaned forward in the Throne of Ysgramor. “It’s why I spared her once I recognised her at Helgen, after all. Kinslaughter is never something done lightly or without exploring all other alternatives.”

            Sigdrifa, seated in a comfortable chair just below the dais to the right, studied her sword-hand with its nicks, scrapes and chewed nails. “I will go to Ivarstead and speak to her,” the Stormsword finally said. “I owe her that much.”

            “Thank you.” Ulfric sighed. “It’s too much to hope for that she’ll fight for us. But if she stays outside the conflict…”

            “It’s still an even fight,” Galmar finished. “Take Bjarni and Egil with you, Sigdrifa. Knowing she has brothers may make her more inclined towards us.”

            “You want me to use my sons to manipulate my daughter?” Sigdrifa asked the huscarl pointedly. To his credit Galmar winced at the implications.

            “No, go on your own. Bjarni and Egil will just complicate the issue.” That was Ulfric. “In the meantime, I will give orders that the Dragonborn is to be treated with all honour and assisted in all reasonable requests.”

            Yrsarald and Galmar saluted in unison. “Yes, Jarl.”

            Once they and Ralof had left, Ulfric ran a hand through hair showing more grey than it did a year ago. “She looks very much like you but for the nose.”

            “She always had a Colovian nose,” Sigdrifa sighed. “She was so small and scrawny, Ulfric. You know what they tell us women – don’t get attached to the sickly ones.”

            “I didn’t, actually.” Ulfric had grown up in a world of men – a widowed father and then the Greybeards, then the war camps of the Legion. Rikke and Sigdrifa had been the first two women he’d interacted with extensively. One had become his enemy and the other his wife.

            “Then she survived. I wanted to send her to a real Temple but no, she was the only granddaughter of Arius Aurelius…” The Stormsword looked blindly across the hall. “I tried to give her the tools to survive as the Shieldmaidens had me and Rikke. I wasn’t a good mother and now she must hate me for it.”

            “Reports state she shies away from mentioning her family and may be antagonistic towards Irkand,” Ulfric said carefully.

            Sigdrifa regarded him with surprise. “Irkand was one of the few members in the family who didn’t think she was a failure!”

            “My source believes she felt betrayed and abandoned because no one went looking for her,” Ulfric told her gently. “Though she has been under her name in the Imperial orphanages and then as a ‘ward’ of Mede’s.”

            She looked at her husband pointedly. “Your source is _very_ informed.”

            He paused and said cautiously, “It’s Delphine. She’s reactivated herself after Helgen.”

            Even now, nearly thirty years later, the old wash of betrayal and hurt was potent. Sigdrifa had tried to be as good a wife as she knew how to Rustem Aurelius, Arius’ handsome feckless warrior son, and he’d left her for a Breton strategist whose skill with the dai-katana was almost proverbial. But Delphine’s devotion to Talos was absolute, her dedication to the Blades’ cause harder than Skyforge steel. Ulfric would be foolish not to work with such an asset.

            “What does she think of the matter?” she asked reluctantly.

            “I don’t know. All she said was that she was following the protocols for making contact.” Ulfric’s mouth quirked to the side in something resembling humour. “I wonder if your daughter will ask her about her taxes?”

            “Delphine’s family were accountants who specialised in juggling High Rock’s tax system,” Sigdrifa said wryly. “I’m pretty sure paying taxes is against Delphine’s ethics.”

            Ulfric snickered. “They’re going to get on grandly.”

            “About as well as Bjarni and Egil over the last sweet roll.” Sigdrifa allowed herself a chuckle. “Ulfric? What do I tell the boys?”

            “The truth.” Ulfric suddenly chuckled. “Having your daughter as the Dragonborn will be quite _taxing_ for all of us, I imagine.”

            She punched his arm. “You’re sleeping with the dogs tonight, Ulfric.”

            “Good to know. They snore less than you.”

…

“You’re telling me that Falkreath’s new tax assessor, thought lost at Helgen, is a figure of Nordic prophecy and legend?”

            “It’s been confirmed through multiple sources, General.” Rikke folded her hands behind her back, praying to Talos for some uncustomary eloquence.

            “Korli is the first Dragonborn since Talos,” Hadvar said quietly. “I never would have guessed it myself, sir, but it explains the dragon doing its best to bring down the Keep.”

            “Even if this is true, the Emperor is going to have a shit fit,” Tullius said bluntly.

            “Permission to be frank, sir?” Rikke met the shorter Colovian’s gaze.

            “Since when have you ever bothered with permission? Go ahead, Legate Primus.”

            “The Emperor would be an idiot not to consider her place in the line of succession once Alduin is dealt with,” Rikke said carefully. “A Dragonborn Empress of Nord ancestry, even born in Cyrodiil, would cement Skyrim’s loyalty like nothing else. Descent from the Hero of Kvatch would win over the remnants of the Akaviri clans.”

            “And provoke another war with the Aldmeri Dominion,” Tullius pointed out sourly.

            “ _Please_ , we’ve already on the way there, General. If we can give her access to the right Shouts, she can do more damage than Ulfric can ever dream of.” Rikke held her commander’s gaze. “There are stories of Tongues literally being able to call storms that sank entire fleets from the sky.”

            “Your plan counts a lot on her loyalty to the Empire,” Tullius mused.

            “She has no reason to love her mother and Ulfric has no time for Colovian Nords. She’s served the Empire loyally so far.”

            “That was before she developed the ability to decimate an army,” Tullius said dryly. “Are you certain she’s the only one who can destroy the dragons permanently?”

            “Yes, sir. History is quite emphatic on that.”

            “And I suppose conscripting her would be a bad idea?”

            “Unless you want her joining the Stormcloaks out of spite…” Rikke let the sentence trail off.

            “Arius was insane, his elder son was an idiot and his younger son a psychopath,” Tullius said bluntly.

            “Yes, sir. I suppose that’s a side effect of descent from the Madgoddess.” The Legate Primus crossed her arms. “Akatosh wouldn’t give a lunatic the ability to absorb dragon souls.”

            “I’d have preferred the Dragonborn be a loyalist,” Tullius grated. “I don’t know about that prophecy of yours, Rikke. But she’s still a citizen of the Empire in good standing. So long as she isn’t performing treason, I’ll leave her alone.”

            “Thank you, sir.” Rikke saluted.

            “I hope I don’t regret this.”

            _When we have a Septim Empress on the Ruby Throne again, General, you won’t,_ Rikke thought. The next few months were going to be busy ones.

…

“Seven… thousand… steps.”

            “Yes,” Balgruuf said happily. “Ah, I miss my annual pilgrimages. I envy you, you know that?”

            Callaina would much rather sit on a throne than walk seven thousand steps up a sacred mountain to chat to some isolated hermits but she said nothing. Instead she looked around the great hall of Dragonsreach, where Balgruuf was holding a feast to celebrate the Dragonborn’s defeat of Mirmulnir, in the hopes of finding someone to save her. When Farkas, one of the real heroes of the hour, saw her he waved eagerly.

            “If you’ll excuse me, I need to talk to Farkas,” she told the Jarl.

            His eyes crinkled at the corners. “You like them big and dark, eh?”

            “If Farkas and Vilkas hadn’t turned that damned dragon into fish bait, none of us would be here,” she said mildly. “I owe them a thank you.”

            “Of course.” Balgruuf sat back in his throne. “Talk to me before you leave for High Hrothgar. A Thane needs a proper huscarl.”

            Being declared Thane of Whiterun hadn’t been on her to-do list. Much like being Dragonborn. Callaina was still trying to wrap her head around that one. Before today, she’d have never accused the gods of being crazy (other than the Madgoddess aspect of Sheogorath) but now, she was wondering if Akatosh had gone completely batshit insane.

            “Hi Korli,” Farkas rumbled once she was within earshot. “Want to come down to Jorrvaskr for the victory feast? Aela paid the tax for honour and glory, so that means we need the assessor to make sure it’s legitimate.”

            “He really means we have three kegs of Honningbrew Mead that need emptying,” said a red-nosed blond Nord with a braided ponytail. “I offered to help but they won’t broach it until the Dragonborn joins us.”

            “I’ll even drink mead if it saves me from here,” she muttered under her breath. “Lead away, oh mighty warriors of Jorrvaskr.”

            “Did she just call me a mighty warrior of Jorrvaskr?” the blond asked Farkas.

            “Yeah. She called me a wise man.” The big man shrugged.

            “It’s true,” Callaina told him.

            “Does that mean I’ll be on the Circle soon?” the blond asked hopefully.

            “Nope.” Farkas guided her down the stairs of Dragonsreach.

            “But the Dragonborn called me a mighty warrior of Jorrvaskr!”

            “Only because she doesn’t know you yet, Torvar.”

            Torvar, obviously the local drunk, grumbled all the way to Jorrvaskr.

            The mead hall was hung with banners, trophy weapons and now the head of Mirmulnir just above the fragmented pieces of what looked like an ebony battle-axe with a screaming elf’s face. “Wuuthrad, the Storm’s Tears,” Farkas murmured in her ear. “The axe of Ysgramor himself.”

            “And you stuck Mirmulnir’s head above the greatest relic of the Companions?”

            “It was the greatest victory we’ve achieved since the days of Ysgramor,” Vilkas said, coming over with flagons of mead. “Hail, Dragonborn.”

            “Please don’t call me that,” she said wearily. “I’m pretty sure Akatosh got into Sanguine’s skooma stash to make me the hero of legend and prophecy.”

            “Or perhaps you were the best option.” Vilkas handed her a flagon of mead. “Taste, Korlaina, and prove that Aela has paid her tax.”

            “That joke’s never going to get old, isn’t it?” Callaina sipped cautiously at the sweet-sour liquid, tasting blue mountain flower and lavender in it. Both ingredients that grew profusely around here.

            “No. We might even make it a custom.” Vilkas smirked. “It will encourage the Companions to be hungry and eager for glory.”

            “Where’s my uncle?” She felt obligated to ask.

            “Hunting.” Aela pushed her way past Njada and Athis the Dunmer to greet Callaina with a smile. “Welcome to Jorrvaskr. I don’t suppose you’d consider joining us?”

            “I’m honoured by the offer but I think I should stay away from any allegiances at the moment,” Callaina said cautiously. “Gods, explaining this to the Imperial offices in Solitude is going to be awkward.”

            “I don’t think you’ll be assessing taxes any time soon.” Aela sipped her mead and licked her lips. “But that is a good point. You are, of course, welcome here at any time.”

            “Thank you.” Callaina managed a smile. “So, can you introduce me to everyone?”

            At least tonight she could forget about the burden of the world’s fate on her shoulders. Kynareth have mercy, how was she going to defeat the fucking World-Eater?


	7. Ivarstead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for violence, cruelty to animals and mentions of implied child abuse/neglect and forced marriage.

 

_Behold the mighty Dragonborn running away from a bear!_

The north-western part of the Rift in the shadow of the Throat of the World was a lovely place, autumnal birch and spruce forests, but the wildlife left much to be desired. Callaina clung desperately to the thick branches of a birch tree as the cave bear, darker and larger than its cousin in Whiterun Hold, snuffled around the base. To add insult to injury, she could hear the buzzing of bees and smell beeswax; just her luck to interrupt a hungry bear today. _Where in Oblivion was her huscarl?_

Unconscious after being punched by the bear and slamming against another tree. Lydia had never been outside of Whiterun and despite her status as Balgruuf’s bastard niece, Callaina was having serious doubts about taking her anywhere. She should just hire Farkas and Vilkas on a permanent basis. Maybe pay them in dragon bones or something.

            “Help!” The forest rumbled when she yelled – according to the map she wasn’t too far from Ivarstead – and she cringed. Great, every dragon in this part of Skyrim would know she was here. And the locals would be aware that their prophesised saviour was stuck up a tree because of a honey-hunting bear. “HELP!”

            The bear glanced upwards and began to stand. Callaina decided that a very fervent prayer to Kynareth wouldn’t go amiss right now. Fine thing if the world ended because she was eaten by a bear.

            “I WOULD REALLY APPRECIATE SOME HELP HERE BECAUSE THERE’S A BEAR WHO’S ABOUT TO EAT ME AND IF YOU DON’T HELP ME WE’RE ALL GOING TO BE EATEN BY ALDUIN!”

            The entire forest shook and even the sky rumbled with thunder. Dignity meant nothing when she was about to die.

            Then a dragon roared. Wonderful, she’d brought one of Alduin’s buddies to Ivarstead.

            Then Stormcloak battle cries she recalled from Helgen filled the air. Fantastic, she was going to die in front of Ulfric’s soldiers.

            Then a familiar, albeit older, figure in intricately carved bear-totem armour arrived and promptly decapitated the bear with one swing of a shock-enchanted Akaviri broadsword.

            Callaina climbed down from the tree and went to check on Lydia. Aside from a bump on the head, the huscarl was already returning to consciousness. Hopefully all she had was some bruises. Concussion was out of her ability to heal and healing potions were useless with head injuries.

            “Healer, check out Lydia Istgeirsdottir,” ordered Sigdrifa Stormsword in her raven-harsh tones.

            “Yes, Stormsword,” a stocky Colovian in Stormcloak blue said, pulling out an old Legion healer’s satchel.

            Callaina backed away to let the man do his work, noting the Anvil Third Legion tattoo on his right bicep. So Ulfric had Imperial veterans working for him. That was… interesting.

            “Thanks for the help,” she said. “But I think we’re about to have company of the draconic sort.”

            A battered grey-white dragon landed on the road, broken-horned head swinging around on a dull-scaled neck. “Drem Yol Lok, Dovahkiin! I am not an enemy!”

            “Say ‘Drem Yol Lok’,” Sigdrifa advised under her breath. “It’s the dragonish way of saying ‘let’s not fight’.”

            “Drem Yol Lok,” Callaina said very quickly. Even an old dragon might be a threat to her.

            The dragon crawled through the underbrush, walking on his wings. “I am Paarthurnax, Master of the Greybeards. Is the kodaav, the bear, gone?”

            “My mother killed it,” she admitted sheepishly. Gods, some saviour of mankind she was.

            “Good. I should return to the Monahven before some upstart of my older brother thinks to make it his lair. We will speak when you visit the Greybeards.” Paarthurnax returned to the road and took to the skies clumsily, soaring up to the Throat of the World.

            “Thanks,” Callaina said with a bit more sincerity to the Stormsword. Today was just going to be all kinds of awkward.

            “A fine thing if Alduin’s Bane went down a bear’s throat,” Sigdrifa observed dryly.

            “I was thinking the same thing.” Callaina looked at Lydia, who was being helped to stand by the medic. “Will Lydia be alright?”

            “Yes,” the Colovian responded in a thick Anvil accent. “I’m Varius.”

            “Wait, the old assessor from Helgen?” she asked. “Didn’t you take religious vows?”

            “I did. To Talos.” Varius tapped the pendant hanging around his neck. “He was the Legion’s god once.”

            “From taxman to, uh, healing priest,” she observed. “That’s… quite a change.”

            “I always worshipped Talos but on the quiet,” Varius said, glancing at the woozy Lydia. “I believed in the Septim Empire. But it’s not that anymore, not after the way I saw Talos’ homeland being bled dry to appease the fucking blackcoats and keep a senile old prick on the Ruby Throne.”

            She sighed. “It’s too early for a political debate. Can we get Lydia to a bed or something?”

            “Ivarstead has an inn,” Sigdrifa said. “It’s too late in the day to start climbing the seven thousand steps.”

            “Any time is too late in the day,” Callaina groused.

            Sigdrifa snickered. “That’s true. Come on, let’s get your huscarl inside.”

…

“Njada caught me up on the, ah, family history.”

            Sigdrifa noted the odd note in her daughter’s voice when she said ‘family’. After the reports from Whiterun of her crushing a dragon’s back with stones, she’d expected Callaina to be clad in proper mage robes and accompanied by Companions. Instead she wore brown homespun and rabbit fur with a freshly minted huscarl who’d never seen real combat before as her protector. “I’ve heard you’re getting on well with the Companions.”

            “Jarl Balgruuf hired the Hero-Twins for the Bleakfalls Barrow trip and we wound up fighting Mirmulnir together,” Callaina said as she reached for the bottle of Alto wine. “Unfortunately, they’re assigned to Jorrvaskr for the next couple weeks because of some rotation thing.”

            “Farkas and Vilkas are highly competent warriors. It’s claimed the former has the strength of Ysgramor and the other his intelligence.” Sigdrifa set out two clean flagons. She preferred ale to wine but it would be diplomatic to share a drink with Callaina.

            “That’s too simplistic. Vilkas is brilliant and could rival any Imperial scholar for breadth of knowledge but he’s also kind of a prick,” Callaina responded, pouring the wine. “Farkas has superior social, emotional and practical intelligence to match his muscles.”

            “Njada didn’t quite put it that way but your assessment matches hers.” Sigdrifa took her flagon. “Ulfric recognised you at Helgen. That’s why he spared you. He’s also given orders that you’re to be given whatever you need within reason. So you could probably claim hospitality at the forts and use the courier relay but asking for a warband would require the sighting of a dragon nearby.”

            The Dragonborn sighed explosively. “What’s the catch?”

            Sigdrifa closed her eyes. The question was so Colovian that it hurt. “The ‘catch’ is that you save the world. Ulfric was an apprentice Greybeard. He knows what the Prophecy means.”

            “And when he killed Torygg, he set it in motion.” Callaina took a largish mouthful of wine.

            “He realises that.” Sigdrifa sighed and studied her flagon. “We don’t expect you to fight for us, as wonderful as that would be. I just hope you won’t fight against us.”

            “I’ve only seen the worst of the Stormcloak rebellion,” she pointed out. “And heard nothing of Ulfric’s plans beyond ‘kick the Empire and elves out so we can worship Talos’. Rebellions ruin economies and disrupt trade. The disconnection between the Imperial and Nord tax systems is driving Skyrim into the ground. The roads and fortresses are a fucking mess, bandits are sprouting up like weeds, and there’s hollow cheeks and hungry eyes everywhere I look.”

            “That’s part of the reason why we’re trying so hard to sway Balgruuf to our side,” Sigdrifa admitted. “The man’s…”

            “Gullveig. Gold-hungry, as we call it in Bruma,” Callaina finished bluntly. “The man can typically channel his greed for the good of his Hold but when trade dries out, he’ll be vulnerable to whoever offers the biggest bribe. And from what I know, that’s going to be the Thalmor-funded faction on the Elder Council.”

            “Balgruuf knows trade and commerce, areas most of Ulfric’s people aren’t as versed in,” the Stormsword agreed. “The north and eastern parts of Skyrim are poorer than the west and centre. And as you said, the… disconnection… between two different tax systems is impoverishing the Nords to pay the debts of an Empire too weak to defend itself against an unjust treaty.”

            “Even if Ulfric wins, you’re going to have to rewrite the tax code,” Callaina said. “It’s contradictory and frankly only slightly less of a joke than the idea of me as Dragonborn.”

            Sigdrifa sipped from her flagon. Bitter stuff, the Alto. “Many forget that Talos was as much an administrator as he was a warlord – but I don’t think you have.”

            “He learned to fight in High Rock, how to conquer in Skyrim and how to rule in Cyrodiil,” Callaina responded bluntly. “That’s the Talos _I_ acknowledge, not the arsehole warlord that most of your people seem to revere.”

            “If that’s the Talos you’re comfortable with, then so be it.” Sigdrifa reached over and tapped her daughter’s nose gently. “But Talos was also the vain, proud, territorial dovah who embodied the power of Shor, the warlord-God who has saved mankind from the mer time and time again. Man, god and dragon. And yes, an arsehole warlord as you put it.”

            Her jaw dropped and Sigdrifa stifled a laugh. “I was a Shieldmaiden of Talos, child, and my time in the Blades only refined my understanding of the Man-God further. Talos is the heart of Nirn as Lorkhan’s Heart was once the seat of divinity. Good and bad, He is the only who keeps the Time-Dragon coiled like a spool of thread on the Wheel. We lose that, the Thalmor destroy us all.”

            “Never pegged you as a religious scholar,” Callaina finally said after another hefty gulp of wine. Sigdrifa had to wonder if she was drinking to cope with the stress.

            “Neither did the Aurelii,” Sigdrifa responded dryly. “I was the only daughter of a geographically useful Jarl who could be used as a blunt weapon, nothing more and nothing less.”

            “Grandfather was an arsehole.” Callaina studied her half-empty flagon. “Uncle Irkand isn’t really much better. I remember him being kind to me but… He treated me like I was still a child when we met at Jorrvaskr. I used to wish… Ah, never mind.”

            “You wished he’d save you from the Imperials,” Sigdrifa finished softly.

            “Yeah. Stupid of me, really.” She shrugged slightly. “I’m less angry at you than I thought I’d be. Isn’t that funny?”

            “I wasn’t a good mother.” Sigdrifa owed Callaina that. “Like you, I was a sickly child and so I was sent to the Shieldmaidens of Talos. They toughened me up and I thought the same techniques would work on you when I realised that you’d survive your first few years.”

            The Dragonborn closed her eyes. “It’s good to hear that. I’m not sure if I can forgive anyone from Cloud Ruler Temple but I _do_ appreciate the apology.”

            “That’s enough for me.” It was better than the Stormsword expected. “You’re welcome at Windhelm if you want to meet Bjarni and Egil.”

            “I thought everyone was dead except for a couple distant cousins, the ones down in Bravil,” Callaina observed with a sigh. “Finding out that your family had entire lives without you feels like shit.”

            “I didn’t expect a child to survive Cloud Ruler, not after what I heard what happened there,” Sigdrifa told her. “I should have looked but the years after the White-Gold Concordat, when Ulfric was fucked over by the Empire in Markarth and his imprisonment were… chaotic.”

            “Things weren’t exactly fantastic in Bruma. Three rebellions in six years until the final Thalmor purge that saw nearly every Bruma inhabitant with a trace of Blades or Nord blood executed.” Callaina’s voice was bitter. “I survived because the Emperor had me taken into ‘protective custody’ by then. There were about twenty of us, mostly Akaviri and Nord blood, who were trained as mid-level bureaucrats and sent to the shittiest jobs in the shittiest parts of the Empire because we were too young to execute without outrage but too politically dangerous to be left alone.”

            “Whereas if the locals rebelled and killed you, Titus Mede’s hands would be clean.” Sigdrifa took a gulp of wine herself. “Bjarni’s fifteen and Egil’s fourteen, Callaina. If we lose…”

            “Titus Mede will execute them.” Her tone was harsh. “Nordic law considers you an adult at sixteen and it’s a lot harder to control a male heir at that age than it would be a female one. Thank Talos you don’t have any more daughters.”

            “Do you support the Empire?” Sigdrifa had to know.

            “I believe in what the Empire could be. But what it is now… no.” Callaina finished her wine. “I can’t fight for either side. Not when Alduin’s up to only the gods know what and I’m the only one who can fight him. I even turned down an invitation to join the Companions because I have to be absolutely neutral.”

            “If you join the Companions or the College, you’d still have that neutrality,” Sigdrifa pointed out. “And a support network. The Blades are mostly dead and we can only help you in eastern Skyrim.”

            “I’m neither mage nor warrior nor thief but someone who’s just trying to survive,” Callaina countered. “I join a faction, I get dragged into their agenda.”

            “Better to choose than have it chosen for you.” Sigdrifa tapped her daughter’s nose again. “If I know my old friend Legate Rikke, she has plans for the Dragonborn. Balgruuf has his own agenda and you’re his Thane. Delphine is active again and believe me, the Blades have plans for the Dragonborn. The Thalmor will want to destroy you. The Companions and the College are the only two legitimate groups in Skyrim who won’t expect you to get involved in politics.”

            “Why are you telling me this?” The bewilderment in those turquoise eyes reminded Sigdrifa of Callaina as a child and sent a flash of guilt through the Stormsword’s soul.

            “Because my choices were taken from me and I don’t want to see it happen to my daughter.”

            Much to her surprise, it was the truth and Sigdrifa prayed her daughter would believe it. Nords valued freedom above all else and the last thing they needed was the Dragonborn becoming twisted in the plans of Skyrim’s enemies.


	8. The Legate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for discussions of mental illness.

 

“Why can’t the ancient keepers of knowledge be located somewhere nice and warm?” Callaina complained as she huffed and puffed up the seven thousand steps.

            Lydia threw her an offended look. “The Throat of the World is where Kynareth breathed the Nords into being, my Thane. Where else would the Greybeards be located?”

            “Somewhere nice and warm, just saying.” Rabbit fur and homespun wasn’t cut out for this kind of snow and wind. “How’s the head holding up?”

            “Fine.” Lydia had taken point and so far managed to dispatch a couple ice wolves and a troll. She’d left the ‘ice wraith’ to Callaina because all Nords apparently fought one as part of their adulthood rites and now the Dragonborn wore cold blue fangs around her neck. The silver-blue scars were _still_ hurting despite healing magic. According to her huscarl, everyone would know she was now an adult, as if she hadn’t been an adult since the age of fourteen.

            Matters weren’t helped by the bag of supplies Callaina was hauling up for Klimmek. Dried fish, mostly the omnipresent salmon, and a smoked dark pink meat called ‘horker’. It was a staple in Skyrim, particularly on the northern coast, and she had no desire to ever meet the creature from its description.

            Long periods of silence gave her time to think. Being saved by her mother. Being treated like an equal by her mother. _Sigdrifa admitting that she’d been a lousy mother in the first place._

            Bewildered didn’t even begin to cover Callaina’s feelings at the moment.

           

            The great grey bulk of High Hrothgar loomed ahead and she sighed in relief. Warmth. Shelter. Maybe even some fucking food. Half-charred bear meat did not a meal make.

            There was a great chest outside surrounded by offerings and yellow orchids that were fresh. Callaina hefted the pack a little higher as she headed for the stairs. She’d just hand this to the Greybeards.

            The doors were metal. Metal fucking doors in this climate? She was a Nord but this was ridiculous.

            “Akatosh, wasn’t there some brawny Skyrim Nord better suited for this job?” she muttered under her breath.

            Then she imagined Hadvar and/or Ralof as the Dragonborn and shuddered. The Thu’um would roll over an army in minutes. No enemy would stand a chance unless they were archers and then, they’d better hit before the Thu’um knocked them on their arse.

            In short, the Dragonborn was an instant win for either side of the civil war.

            Kynareth save her from the egos of those who wanted power.

            She opened the doors and entered, Lydia on her heels. A shrouded figure knelt in the middle of the hall, dimly lit by four braziers, and with every breath he took the air trembled.

            “Drem Yol Lok,” she greeted.

            “Dragonborn.” Another old man, this one with his hood down to show a lion’s mane of frosted iron, entered from the side in measured strides. “It is good to know you survived the bear.”

            “I got a little help from the Stormcloaks and Paarthurnax,” she answered sheepishly.

            His breath sucked in sharply. “Paarthurnax descended from the Throat?”

            “Yeah. I guess he wouldn’t be too keen on me dying because he’d be the entrée of Alduin’s feast.” Two other Greybeards filed in and the kneeling one stood.

            “This is not how things are meant to go,” the Greybeard observed frostily.

            “I’m pretty sure I wasn’t meant to be Dragonborn either, unless Alduin has overdue taxes,” she responded dryly. “My name’s Aurelia Callaina.”

            If he’d looked pissy before, now he looked downright vinegary. “That is a Blades name.”

            “Yes and my grandfather was the last Grand Master. I’m here because my illustrious ancestors were a pack of bloody fools who didn’t have all the answers. For what it’s worth, I worship Kynareth and don’t get warm and tingly about using the Thu’um to conquer the world.”

            The Greybeard who’d been kneeling chuckled, the sounding making the building shake. Then he lowered his hood to reveal an aged but familiar face.

            Callaina found herself grinning. “Master Wulfgar!”

            “Kah-Lah-Nah,” he responded in a whisper, the ground trembling, a smile in his eyes.

            “Pride. Magicka. Fury.” The Greybeard who could speak in an ordinary tone translated. “A dangerous name.”

            Callaina sighed. “This is awkward for us all, sir. We need to work together if we don’t want the world to end.”

            “Do you consider yourself a Blade?”

            “Oh gods no. Honestly, aside from maybe old Esbern, I’m more inclined to punch them. Or pay the Companions to punch them.”

            That earned a wintry smile from the Greybeard. “Perhaps there is hope for you yet. I am Master Arngeir and I speak for the Greybeards.”

            Callaina dreamed of punching Arngeir for a moment before she set it aside, offering him a curt Colovian curtsey after dropping Klimmek’s supplies. “An honour to meet you, sir. So what now?”

            Arngeir smiled once more. “We teach you patience and restraint.”

…

“Patience and restraint, my arse.”

            Callaina understood that in a heroic quest there were any number of hoops to jump but the side trip to Morthal in order to find a horn in a tomb deep in the swamp seemed pointless. But Ustengrav was where Yurgen Windcaller was buried and so Ustengrav was where she’d go after stopping off at Whiterun. Old Nord tombs meant lots of draugr which meant she’d need muscle. Hopefully the twins would be available.

            They just made the carriage in time and Callaina noticed the Stormcloaks had gone. Great, how many people knew she was Dragonborn?

            By the time they got back to Whiterun, she realised it was just about everyone.

            Shit.

            An official Imperial missive, delivered by a square-jawed Nord Legate with dark braided hair and a gimlet gaze, waited for her in Balgruuf’s great hall. “Aurelia Callaina,” the woman began. “I am Legate Rikke-“

            “Snow-Stone, right? Old friend of my ma’s from the Shieldmaidens,” Callaina interrupted.

            “…Yes. Though unlike her, I’ve kept my vows.” Rikke squared already square shoulders. Everything about her was square. They could stick her into the big gap in Whiterun’s walls and plug it up.

            “If you’re a Priestess of Talos in the Legion, that might be up to debate,” Callaina said dryly.

            “I never took those vows,” Rikke retorted flatly. “Am I to take your hostility as-?”

            “I’m exhausted and in the next couple days, I have to traipse through an icy bog, go tomb-crawling again and then climb seven thousand steps for the third time in a week,” Callaina interrupted once more. “If this is a conscription notice, I’d cordially like to make a suggestion on where General Tullius can file it as per references from the Orcish taxpayers I dealt with in High Rock.”

            Much to her surprise, the Legate smirked. “No. I advised General Tullius that would be a… bad idea.”

            “Common sense in the Legion? Isn’t that against the oath or something?” Callaina rubbed the back of her neck. Lydia had returned to the barracks, thank Kynareth, and she just wanted a hot bath and bed.

            “The General is no idiot,” Rikke replied. “This is an official recognition of your status as Dragonborn. So long as you remain loyal to the Empire, you will be left alone to deal with the dragons as you see fit.”

            _And how is that loyalty defined, I wonder?_

            “Thanks. I’m not fighting in this damned war and if I had any say in it, I’d prefer everyone sort out a truce so I can deal with the scaly bastards in peace,” Callaina told her. “I might as well put in an official resignation because I don’t think I’ll be able to work on the tax system at the moment.”

            “Not _now_ you won’t,” Rikke agreed. “But-“

            “All my focus is on the dragons,” she said bluntly. “And don’t make plans around me or for me. I’ve had quite enough of it and honestly just want to be left alone.”

            “With the Thu’um, that won’t happen,” the Legate said stiffly. “But as you wish. Just go to any of the Legates in my name and they’ll give you whatever you need within reason.”

            “Mother made the same offer on behalf of the Stormcloaks,” Callaina observed. “Good to see there’s some sense in Skyrim.”

            “Alduin needs to be defeated,” Rikke said softly. “But you can’t deny your destiny forever, Aurelia Callaina.”

            “My grandfather thought it was his destiny to be Emperor and it got a lot of people killed. Titus Mede’s welcome to the Ruby Throne. I hear it’s fucking uncomfortable.” She deliberately picked up her backpack. “Now if you’ll excuse me-“

            She didn’t wait for the Legate’s reply but headed for Balgruuf’s personal quarters and the guest room therein. She was no one’s lackey and most certainly no one’s would-be Empress.

…

Irkand shook his head, having watched the whole scene. “Her selfishness is… astonishing.”

            “It’s part and parcel of being Dragonborn,” Delphine reminded him. “Every dragon thinks of its own needs first.”

            Being contacted by his old colleague had been a little surprising but welcome. The Companions meant well yet their misunderstanding of necessity galled him at times. Farkas and Vilkas were quite chilly after spending time with Callaina. They’d never been more than cordial but now…

            He shook his head again. “Poor Rikke.”

            “She’s a big girl. She can handle it.” Delphine was callous as the Legate’s shoulders bowed in defeat.

            “So now what?”

            “I make contact at Ustengrav. What you don’t know, you can’t tell, so don’t ask.”

            Irkand snorted. “Please, I know protocol. I’m a little surprised you broke it though-“

            “I need you running interference with your old friends,” Delphine interrupted.

            “As much as I’d like to renew my acquaintance with Elenwen and family, is that wise?” Irkand looked at her mildly.

            “It’s _necessary_ , Irkand. I’ve got it from good sources that there’s a debate on whether she should be stopped from killing the dragons because Alduin’s meant to end the world.”

            “And yet they don’t understand he’s only going to shit it out in new form,” the Redguard observed dryly. “The Akaviri believed all souls would return as dragons.”

            “Lovely. Well, I’d like to stop them.” Delphine eyed him grimly. “Can I count on you?”

            “Will you stay the fuck out of my way and let me run the operation as I see fit?” Irkand asked mildly.

            “Please, I know protocol.”

            He inclined his head. “Very well.”

            “Thanks.” Delphine smiled and looked relieved. “Talos willing, I’ll see you in a few weeks.”

            “You’d do better to pray to the Madgoddess because I don’t think Callaina will listen to Him.” He had to wonder if Callaina’s extreme selfishness was her own ‘quirk’ from their ancestress, a by-product of her need to survive. It would make sense – Arius’ had been his ambition and Rustem’s his… well, need to be recognised. Irkand’s own was his ability to kill without remorse.

            “I’m praying to every deity I can think of,” Delphine assured him. “The war won’t end with the dragons and she can’t see that.”

            “She will,” he murmured. “Even if we must force her to consider it.”

            Delphine threw him a sharp look and then nodded slowly. “Good. I’ll leave you to your work.”


	9. The Harbinger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warnings for mentions of atrocity. I have some head-canon revolving around the Companions, so you get to see that. Enjoy!

 

“You look exhausted.”

            Callaina threw Balgruuf a wry look as she accepted a bowl of porridge from Fianna. “I have the fate of the world on my shoulders and everyone’s trying to make me pick a side in the war. Don’t know about you, Jarl, but me and insomnia are old friends now.”

            He nodded sympathetically. “I know the feeling, Dragonborn. Sooner or later, someone’s going to decide to take my city. I can only stall both sides for so long.”

            She drizzled some lavender honey, a specialty of Whiterun’s cuisine, on the porridge. Balgruuf watched her olive-bronze fingers, now marked with scrapes and callus and a couple freshly healed cuts, roll the flatbread stacked on the platter in the middle of the table into a scoop. “If my mother’s to be believed, Ulfric’s being more reasonable than Tullius about the dragons. He also wants you on his side because he doesn’t know shit about trade and commerce but you do.”

            “I’m sure that’s part of it. But Ulfric also wants the gold and grain of my Hold to fuel the Stormcloaks’ war effort.” Balgruuf sighed and looked over the hall his ancestors back to Wulfharth sat in. “I am a Nord and Talos is the god of my people. But the Empire’s trade enriches Whiterun more so than that from the east. It is… a difficult decision.”

            “Religion versus wealth.” She scooped some porridge into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully before swallowing. “Metaphysically, Talos _has_ to exist or time itself will unwind. Do you think that if the Empire wins, the Thalmor will ignore Skyrim? No. Not after Ulfric’s little uprising. Gods need us as much as we need them.”

            “You support the Stormcloaks then?” Balgruuf asked, eyes narrowed.

            “Both sides are arseholes who make valid points,” she replied bluntly. “Win or lose, the only ones benefitting from this war are the Thalmor. While it drags on, the Empire’s bleeding white. The Legion wins, they can come in and decimate the Nords until belief in Talos is stamped out, therefore weakening the Time-Dragon. The Stormcloaks win, Cyrodiil will be utterly wrecked and vulnerable to another invasion from the Dominion because their best Legion will be dead.”

            Balgruuf’s mouth tightened. “Legate Rikke made an interesting suggestion-“

            “Concerning my status as the Dragonborn, the rumoured descent from the fucking Septims and that hideous golden throne in the White-Gold Tower?” Callaina asked, her own eyes narrowing dangerously.

            Balgruuf met that dragon’s gaze squarely. “You have the Colovian upbringing, the connections and the bloodline to bring Ulfric’s people to heel,” he pointed out. “It is a thing to consider while you’re fighting Alduin.”

            “I’m not the Second Coming of Talos,” the Dragonborn said bitterly. “And I’m no one’s Empress, Jarl. Talos titty-fucking Dibella, I’m not even particularly happy being your Thane and if you choose a side in the war, I’m relinquishing the title.”

            “You being my Thane is the only thing keeping the Legion and the Stormcloaks from my walls,” Balgruuf told her flatly.

            “And what would you do if I chose the side of the war you disagreed with, hmm?” she countered. “I’ve got two little brothers who will _die_ if the Empire wins, Balgruuf. Titus Mede won’t fuck around. In fact, he’ll probably take hostages and have them raised in the Imperial Court so that in a generation, you’ll have a Skyrim full of Siddgeirs. Your children are already brats – they don’t need any more instruction in the art of being selfish shits.”

            Thane and Jarl stared at each other across the table before Balgruuf broke the silence. “What are you saying?”

            “That if push comes to shove, you’ll choose the Empire because you’re gullveig – gold-hungry,” she said softly. “If push comes to shove, I’ll have no choice but to fight for the Stormcloaks because I have family there. Isn’t clan everything to a Nord?”

            “You’re more Colovian than a Nord,” he pointed out.

            She pushed the half-eaten bowl of porridge aside. “If you want to play kingmaker, Jarl, don’t do it with me. If I so much as _hint_ I’m interested in the Ruby Throne, Titus Mede would send the Penitus Oculatus after me quicker than Dagny on a sweet roll. Neutrality’s a bitch but with either of the choices we must make, there’s a hope for the world continuing. If Alduin wins, we’re all dead or worse.”

            “The Emperor is no fool,” Balgruuf reminded her.

            “He’s also a paranoid git who crushes his enemies ruthlessly,” she said softly. “He used the Thalmor to utterly crush the northern Colovian clans who opposed him, Nord and Akaviri alike, because they rallied around my idiot of a grandfather. If I were to go for the Ruby Throne, I would need to match him for ruthlessness. And that’s a line I have no desire to cross.”

            She rose to her feet. “I’m a tax assessor, not a general or a ruler. Whatever _you_ choose, Balgruuf, there’s going to be blood on your hands. The blood of Colovians or the blood of Nords.”

            Callaina walked away before looking over her shoulder at the shaken Jarl. “I can only fight one war at a time.”

            The Dragonborn left the great hall and Balgruuf remained, deep in thought.

…

“Korli!”

            Farkas hugged the Dragonborn so tightly the breath was crushed from her lungs. It looked like someone was happy to see her again. Somehow she suspected Balgruuf wasn’t going to be impressed with her after this morning’s little rant.

            “Hey big guy,” she wheezed when the werewolf let her go. Jorrvaskr was empty but for the Companion and old Tilma sweeping near the stairs that led to personal quarters. “How are you?”

            “Good, though I’m a bit bored. I drew short straw so I’m at Jorrvaskr for the next week while everyone else gets to fight.” The giant warrior sighed. “Glad you came by though. Old Kodlak wants to talk to you.”

            “The Harbinger?” Callaina was still trying to figure out what the Harbinger did exactly. The Companions reputedly had no leaders, according to the legends, yet the Harbinger had authority. She was confused about the situation.

            “Yeah. If he wants to see you, it must be important.” Farkas scratched the back of his neck. “The Harbinger can sometimes dream of danger to Skyrim. If he wants to see the Dragonborn-“

            “Got it. Honestly, I’ve been wanting to meet him,” she admitted.

            “That’s even better.” Farkas wrapped an arm around her shoulders and steered her towards the stairs. “I’d come down but I have to stay up here in case someone comes by with a job.”

            “Understood. Maybe when I’m done with Kodlak, I can talk to you about that. I have to go barrow-crawling again.”

            “Ustengrav?” At her surprised expression, the Companion chuckled. “Every Dragonborn who’s being taught by the Greybeards goes there, Vilkas says. Dunno why. Just is.”

            “Test of worthiness or some crap,” Callaina sighed. “Mind you, I want to punch the head Greybeard as much as I want to the next Blade I run into. They’re self-righteous arseholes.”

            “If a Blade shows up, I’ll punch them for you,” he offered with a gentle smile. “Better go talk to Kodlak.”

            “Thanks.” She smiled at him and headed downstairs.

            The Companions’ personal quarters were underground, candlelit and warmed by strategically placed braziers. A barracks was located directly across from the door with a long corridor stretching past shorter ones to end in what looked like an office of some kind. The stone walls were hung with red and orange banners depicting an intact Wuuthrad while the carpets echoed the theme. Drying herbs hung from the ceiling while wardrobes, bookcases and shelves were scattered everywhere.

            Njada, called Stone-arm, was mending the grip on a steel-rimmed shield at a nearby bench. “Hey Dragonborn,” she greeted with a nod. “If you’re looking for your uncle, he left a couple days ago.”

            “I’m looking for Kodlak, actually,” she told the ‘whelp’, who was some kind of apprentice Companion as she understood it.

            “You’re joining up?”

            “My mother actually made the suggestion but apparently your leader wants to speak to me.” Callaina shrugged helplessly. “Since he has premonitions of danger…”

            “All Harbingers do. It’s somehow given during the process that makes a Harbinger.” Njada shivered a little; Nords were uncomfortable with magic. “Old power coming from Atmora, maybe older than the Voice.”

            That was interesting. “The Septims had dreams of things to come. Sometimes they even got them in time to be useful.”

            Her dry tone made the brusque Nord snicker. “Kodlak gets… feelings with the occasional vision about dangers to the Companions and Skyrim. He was insistent on us all working on our ranged weapons training over the past few months and with the dragons’ coming back, we finally understand why.”

            “I don’t suppose he knows who’ll win the war?”

            “No, and even if he did, he wouldn’t say anything. Politics are for the Jarls, not the Companions.” Njada sighed and looked down at the shield in her hands. “Even if we have family fighting.”

            “Yeah. This war’s a mess and the only ones laughing are the Thalmor.” Callaina echoed Njada’s sigh.

            “You could end it,” the shieldmaiden pointed out.

            “Sure. I have the choice between oathbreaking or kinslaughter,” Callaina retorted bitterly.

            “The Empire broke its oath to Skyrim first,” Njada observed.

            “If you feel so strongly, why are you with the Companions instead of fighting for the Stormcloaks?” Callaina asked.

            “Because if Uncle Galmar loses, I’ll be the last of my clan,” she said softly. “I’ll be safe in the Companions.”

            Callaina shook her head. “Titus Mede didn’t let things like sanctuary stop him when he purged the northern Colovian clans.”

            “Ria said something similar.” Njada shook her head. “Ulfric will win. Talos is on our side.”

            “Three thousand people died screaming Talos’ name in Bruma and we didn’t get a single fucking lightning bolt that wasn’t cast by a Blades battlemage,” Callaina responded bitterly. “Just… keep your head low, okay?”

            The shieldmaiden regarded her sadly. “Sometimes, it’s better to die with your head held high than live with it bowed. But… I think you already know that.”

            Callaina glanced away without reply. It was a good hit. “I should find Kodlak.”

            “End of the hall.” Njada returned to her shield. “Maybe he can help you with your question of honour.”

            Callaina left honour to those who had the luxury of it. But she nodded and headed down the corridor.

            Kodlak Whitemane, Harbinger of the Companions, was a tired-looking Nord with the subtle tremor of illness wracking a once-powerful body. But his eyes, iron-grey to the twins’ pale silver, were keen as the sword hung on the rack beside his chair. “Aurelia Callaina,” he greeted in a rough strong voice, his accent precise on her name. “Welcome to Jorrvaskr.”

            She curtsied slightly. “I’m honoured, Harbinger.”

            He chuckled wearily. “No one bows in Jorrvaskr, lass, and most certainly not the Dragonborn. Please, take a seat.”

            She sat down on the specified chair and let him pour them Honningbrew mead into fine silver goblets. His furniture, though dark and worn through time and use, wouldn’t disgrace a Jarl’s home and the fur cloak around his shoulders was a truly magnificent snow bear’s pelt. “Farkas told me you had premonitions concerning me,” she said bluntly.

            “Indeed.” Kodlak handed her the goblet, mead sloshing a little as his hand trembled, and she said nothing while she took it. “I assume the scavengers are already surrounding you.”

            She paused and Kodlak regarded her sharply. “Whatever is said in my office stays here, Callaina. The Companions have achieved glory and honour thanks to you – providing a sanctuary is the least we can do.”

            “Balgruuf and Legate Primus Rikke are making noises about me going for the Ruby Throne,” she finally replied. “If you know my uncle, you know the history there.”

            Kodlak sighed. “I know what Irkand has told me and the choices he felt his honour required. Your family executed but for the few who escaped the Thalmor by being… elsewhere.”

            “It just wasn’t the Aurelii who died. It was the Blades, their supporters and families, the northern Colovian clans who threw their support to my grandfather’s treason, civilians whose only crime was to live in Bruma…” Callaina studied the goblet. “My uncle knows _what_ happened but I _lived_ it.”

            “Your uncle and mother were with Skjor, who was assigned to rescuing Ulfric Stormcloak from Thalmor captivity as a Legionnaire,” Kodlak finally said. “When the war was over, Irkand came here with Skjor because he had no purpose and your mother joined Ulfric because she wouldn’t relinquish her god quietly. Both of them had every reason to believe you were dead at Cloud Ruler with the other Aurelii.”

            “I get that.” Callaina took a largish gulp of mead. “But if you tell me I don’t have the right to be bitter, Harbinger or not I might just punch you in the face.”

            “Your spiritual scars are considerable,” Kodlak agreed gently. “I assume you’ve come here to hire someone to accompany you to Ustengrav?”

            “The twins if I can steal them,” she admitted. Did Kodlak know they were werewolves?

            “I’m given to understand you know about the beast blood,” Kodlak continued calmly.

            “Yes. I was… entranced… by the word on the wall and if Farkas hadn’t become a werewolf, I might have died.” She held up her hand. “I’m not saying a word. You want to serve Hircine, be my guest. I won’t even make dog jokes.”

            Kodlak’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “I don’t think Farkas would be displeased if you patted him on the head.”

            She found herself blushing at the knowing tone in his voice. “He’s a lovely man. Smarter than people give him credit for.”

            “So he is and it’s a rare person who recognises that.” Kodlak sipped from his goblet and sighed. “I did ask for your presence because there is a real danger looming in the north, one that perhaps only the Dragonborn can deal with.”

            “Alduin’s in the north?”

            “No, it’s more immediate than Alduin, hard as that may be to believe.” The old man sighed again. “I know that an eye and a labyrinth are involved. Since the College of Winterhold’s sigil is the five-pointed eye…”

            “You think it’s them,” she finished with a sigh of her own. “Can’t you send a message or something?”

            “Your presence – or lack thereof – will mean the difference between the eye opening and the eye closing,” Kodlak said gravely. “The forewarning Shor gives the Harbingers is imprecise at best. This was, in fact, the second-clearest vision I’ve ever had in my life.”

            “What was the first?” she asked curiously.

            “My vision of Sovngarde if I should find a cure,” was his answer. “I am suffering the straw-death because of the beast blood curse. There are those – Skjor, Aela and your uncle – who embrace the blood but I and Vilkas want to be free of it. Farkas hasn’t made his opinion known either way.”

            “How’d you all sign up for an eternity in the Hunting Grounds anyway?”

            “It… became a tradition for the Circle to be a pack. I don’t know how long but it’s been like this for at least a few hundred years.” Kodlak drank some of his mead. “I am a Nord. I wish to go to Sovngarde and feast with Ysgramor.”

            She wasn’t surprised Irkand embraced being a werewolf. “Is there anything I can do to help? Maybe there’s a Shout out there or something I can find.”

            “Unless you join the Companions, it isn’t your problem, though I thank you for the honour,” Kodlak told her.

            Callaina sighed. “I’ll have to join the College if you want me to deal with… whatever they’re doing.”

            “Indeed. But you are a talented mage.” Kodlak smiled slightly. “There has been the odd adventurer who trained at both the College and Jorrvaskr. As the Dragonborn, you’d be most welcome at either place.”

            “My mother said the only hope for neutrality I’d have would be to join the Companions or the College,” she said slowly.

            “Most likely.” Kodlak sighed and had a little more mead. “I admit that I’d like you to join for Farkas’ sake – and perhaps Irkand’s. He’s returning to old habits as a Blade that, while pragmatic, lack honour. Forcing him from the pack could lead him to a darker path.”

            “My uncle, whatever his virtues, is a killer,” Callaina said grimly. “He might kill for a good cause but he’s always an assassin.”

            “I know,” Kodlak said. “But I would prefer he _not_ join the Brotherhood. If he does, the world itself will shake with the consequences of his actions.”

            “He was raised to believe he was Dragonborn,” Callaina said softly. “I think he’s angry that he’s not.”

            Kodlak looked at her with those iron-grey eyes and in that stern gaze she saw every Harbinger stretching back to Ysgramor himself.

            “He could have been. But when he chose Hircine, that chance was lost to him forever and aye. Trading current prowess for future glory – the shortest road isn’t always the best one. Remember _that_ , Dragonborn, in the times ahead.”


	10. The Palace of the Kings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warnings for violence, fantastic racism and mentions of genocide.

 

There was no point in spending the night in Whiterun when the moons were clear, the shimmering curtain of opalescent light called Kyne’s Veil obscuring the stars and her purse flatter than the hopes of a reborn Septim Empire. Callaina collected her meagre belongings from Dragonsreach, leaving behind the axe given to her as a token of her office as Thane and the huscarl who was more Balgruuf’s ears than protector. In the end, after some consultation with Farkas and Vilkas, she chose to go to Winterhold before Ustengrav. Kodlak had been emphatic about the urgency of her presence at the College and if it was a more immediate threat than the World-Eater-

            Well, she’d better get cracking.

            The Companions had offered hospitality but at the moment, Callaina needed solitude. Since Helgen she’d more or less been in the presence of others with no time spared to process the fact that she was the prophesised saviour of humanity. It was about a twelve-hour walk to Windhelm at an easy pace, according to the map she’d perused in Belethor’s shop and the Breton’s own experiences of trading in the city, and the trip to Winterhold about twenty septims if she didn’t mind the smell of fish. After her one posting on the Blackmarsh border, dead fish were positively aromatic compared to bog-stink. Maybe she could even find enough blue mountain flowers to supplement the cracked wheat in her pack to make a few health potions to sell or barter. Healthcare was hit or miss in Skyrim, even where the Legion was stationed and the healers supposed to serve the local populace.

            Aside from Ivarstead, she’d never been in the Stormcloak-aligned east. It would be interesting to see Ulfric’s own stronghold and how it fared under the rebels’ rule. She wouldn’t stop by the Palace of the Kings to see her mother though. Her neutrality despite her words to Balgruuf needed to be strict.

            _I wonder what Mother told my brothers about me._ She didn’t know what to do about little brothers except try to make sure her fate wasn’t theirs.

            There were bandits at Valtheim Towers, once manned by the Legion until abandoned a few years before Ulfric’s rebellion. The watcher, a lanky Redguard woman, eyed her contemptuously and said, “The toll’s two hundred septims.”

            “I don’t have two hundred septims,” Callaina replied softly. “On the other hand, you might need that to patch you up if you don’t let me pass.”

            “Why’s that?” the Redguard asked.

            “Because I’ll Shout you arse over tits into the gorge.” Callaina let the softest edge of the Thu’um rumble through her voice.

            Her eyes widened. “Shit! _You’re_ the Dragonborn?”

            “I just said that. I need to be somewhere and I’m not looking for a fight. Let me pass and we’ll both be happier for it.”

            She held up her hands. “Fine, fine. Best go now before the boss notices. Still, figured you’d be armoured like a Companion or something.”

            “Appearances can be deceiving. I, ah, strongly advise you find legitimate work. Neither the Legion nor the Stormcloaks will appreciate the presence of bandits here.” Her courtesy deserved the suggestion.

            “I’ll pass your suggestion on to the boss,” she said dryly. “Now get going before you’re skewered with an arrow.”

            Callaina got going. No need to tempt fate more than she was.

            The road hugged the edge of the volcanic tundra known as the Aalto Plains, where the legendary jazbay grapes grew bitter and wild. She collected whole handfuls alongside red and purple mountain flowers, an odd red root that looked uneasily like a bloodied skeletal hand with too many fingers, and the golden orchids known as Dragon’s Tongue. On a whim, she stuck a bloom of the last in her hair.

            Even at night, the view of the tundra was spectacular, a giant and mammoth striding along the landscape. A dragon slept near what looked like a Word Wall; she made note of its location if it decided to attack people. Eventually the tundra faded into snow, the jazbay replaced by snowberry bushes that she picked bare. Esbern once said that snowberries were stained by Shor’s blood and that was why they protected against frost, flame and storm. They also strengthened the connection between a mage and whatever they were enchanting, producing stronger effects.

            There was a town called Kynesgrove that she reached by the time Kyne’s Veil began to fade into predawn’s colourless light. Callaina paused at the path leading to it, wondering if she should try and stay at the village inn (if there was one) and then shook her head. She could sleep on the boat to Winterhold.

            Within an hour or so she was crossing the long bridge built by elven slaves under Ysgramor’s stern eye. Windhelm was a blocky city, graceless and ugly compared to the Imperial City and lacking Whiterun’s vaunting glory. This was a place built by a king battered by war and years, the mortar ground with bones and set with tears. It was the first city of Man and instinctively, she understood why the Companions didn’t live here – because it was Ysgramor’s grief and not his glory. Wasn’t his son buried just north of here?

            The gate guards eyed her as she approached. They were what Hadvar once described as ‘old Atmoran blood’ – pale of hair, skin and eye, sturdy and tall, beards and hair braided. The archetypal Nord mocked in Cyrodiil. “Imperial or Redguard?” one asked curtly.

            “Colovian Nord,” she responded calmly. “An Imperial or Redguard would be shivering their arses off even if they wore a mountain of furs up here.”

            The left-hand guard snickered. Both of them wore long-sleeved versions of Ralof’s uniform back in Helgen, bearskin mantles and spiked steel helmets. “True enough. Business in Windhelm?”

            “Looking to get some supplies and maybe a room at one of the cheaper inns before heading north,” Callaina said truthfully.

            “Get some thicker clothing, kinswoman. It gets colder from here,” the guard said with rough kindness. “You fleeing the Legion?”

            “I… wouldn’t put it that way,” she said carefully. “Though I’m sure I’ve pissed off at least one Legate.”

            “Healer?” the guard asked.

            “Sort of. Mostly basic potions and a bit of healing magic. If you’re hurt, you’re better off seeing a healing priest.”

            “If you want to strike at the Legion, talk to the priests at the Temple of Talos,” he urged quietly. “There’s more hands to lift a sword than to heal a wound and the Legion wiped out half of the Rift warband at Giant’s Gap.”

            _So Ulfric lacks healers. That can’t be good for his people._ “I might. At the moment, I’m honestly tired and might do more harm than good.”

            She hadn’t been in a Temple of Talos since the age of eight and that one had been the Great Chapel in Bruma. It would be interesting to see a Nord one.

            “Go to Candlehearth Hall and tell Elda Early-Dawn Froki sent you. She’ll give you a discount.”

            “Thanks.” She offered her hand. “I’m Korli.”

            He shook it. “Froki Battered-Beak.”

            Judging by his nose, it looked appropriate. “Hell of an honour-name, Froki.”

            “Broke it headbutting a Legion Quaestor to death,” he grinned. “Talos with you, kinswoman.”

            “And you.” He opened the gates and let her in. She was bemused by his ready acceptance of her status as both a Nord and a non-enemy.

            “-You eat our grain and pollute your city with your stink! You refuse to fight for the Stormcloaks!” A pair of drunken Nords, one in homespun spotted with gravy and the other in rags, were berating a Dunmer woman.

            “It’s not our fight!” she shot back.

            “Hey Angrenor, you reckon this greyskin bitch is an Imperial spy?” the balding one asked his beggar friend.

            “An Imperial spy? Don’t be stupid,” the Dunmer said in disgust.

            “Maybe. All these elves stick together, after all,” Angrenor agreed.

            “Altmer and Dunmer hate each other,” Callaina said as she walked up to the trio. “The Altmer want to return to primordial divinity by destroying the world while the Dunmer, if I understand it correctly, believe mortality is a challenge to be overcome.”

            “It’s a little more complicated than that,” the woman muttered.

            “Who asked your opinion, _Imperial_?” sneered the first drunk.

            “No one, but I didn’t ask to hear your idiocy about Dunmer either,” she retorted flatly. “Besides, I’m a Colovian Nord, not an Imperial.”

            “You’re a Dunmer lover, that’s what you are,” he countered, pulling back his fist. “Do you know what real Nords do to filthy dark elf lovers?”

            Even exhausted, she was able to dodge his wild blow. His boots skidded on the icy stones and he fell flat on his back in a snowbank.

            “Fall on their arses apparently,” she drawled. “Go home. You’re drunk.”

            He staggered to his feet. “I’ll show you, you Legion-loving-“

            “Rolff, for once in your life stop being an idiot!” growled a bear of a man swathed in white bearskins, his knotted beard grey as the stones of Windhelm in the dawn’s light, as he grabbed the drunk by the collar of his tunic. “Take a _good_ look at her.”

            “She’s an elf lover,” Rolff – who if Callaina recalled was Njada’s father – spat.

            “I’ve never screwed a mer in my life,” Callaina sighed. “Sir Galmar, you really need to haul your brother and his friends in. All they’re doing is pissing off the Dunmer enough that they’ll _become_ Legion spies out of spite.”

            Galmar Stone-Fist, Ulfric’s huscarl, grunted. “Your mother’s having breakfast in the Great Hall if you’re looking for her.”

            “I’m looking for a bed,” Callaina said honestly. “I’ve travelled all night from Whiterun.”

            “Talk to Jorleif.” He regarded her warily. “Here to help or hinder?”

            “I’m passing through. I need to go to Winterhold for some… research.” She wasn’t sure how much to tell about Kodlak’s visions and Galmar obviously knew she was Dragonborn.

            “Good idea. The College has the Ysmir Collective. Oldest library outside of the elven lands.” Galmar handed a spluttering Rolff over to a guard. “Ulfric might be able to help you too. We know what Alduin’s return means.”

            “…Thanks.” Callaina could sense Galmar’s distrust yet he still offered suggestions.

            “You’re the Stormsword’s daughter, which means Ulfric’s stepdaughter. That makes us kin since I was fostered with Ulfric until he went to the Greybeards.” He regarded her with icy eyes. “I hope you won’t betray that kinship.”

            “I don’t want to,” she admitted softly. “I’m trying to stay out of the war.”

            “May not have a choice,” Galmar said bluntly. “I just hope you don’t choose the wrong side, Dragonborn.”

            So much for discretion. “Don’t try to force me into anything, Stone-Fist, and I won’t have to.”

            “I’m not a Legionnaire with a conscription notice. Go to the Palace and speak to Jorleif. You look like shit.”

            “Thanks,” she said softly. Time to go before things got even more awkward.

            The Palace of the Kings was blocky and in need of repair but the doors were good. The door-guards let her past without comment and Callaina suddenly found herself in a mighty hall lined with the banners of battles past, torches in iron brackets and enough tables to put Sovngarde to shame. At the high table, draped with blue linen, Ulfric, her mother, Ralof and a couple well-grown adolescent boys shared a meal spartan even by Nord standards.

            A moustached man wearing a fur-lined cap intercepted her at the door. “I am Jorleif, steward to Jarl Ulfric. If you have news of the western Holds, the Jarl will want to speak to you immediately.”

            “Aside from a bunch of bandits at Valtheim Towers and a dragon in the Aalto Plains, not much to report,” she said, rubbing aching eyes. “Galmar told me to speak to you about a bed. My name’s Callaina-“

            “Dragonborn!” Jorleif’s shocked exclamation echoed throughout the morning-empty hall. “You should have sent word – I would have arranged appropriate accommodation-“

            “I’ve been walking all night and just want a pallet by the fire,” Callaina said with a sigh. “I need to go to Winterhold.”

            “You should eat something first,” Jorleif said, steering her by the arm towards the high table, the second-last place in Skyrim she wanted to be at the moment. “Bit of porridge at least.”

            “I-“

            “Don’t argue with Jorleif,” advised the older of the two boys – Bjarni, if she recalled correctly. “Not even Zenithar could win an argument with him and he’s the god that wins.”

            “Don’t blaspheme,” Sigdrifa told him severely.

            “That’s pretty mild compared to what I’ve been saying lately,” Callaina observed with a sigh. “I’m still certain Akatosh got into Sanguine’s skooma stash when He decided to make me the only hope for the world.”

            She sat down across from Ralof, the blond regarding her warily, and a servant handed her a bowl of porridge. “Thanks,” she told him.

            “The gods move in strange ways,” the younger, Egil, observed quietly. He wore an Amulet of Stendarr around his neck and of the two boys, he looked the most like Ulfric except that his voice was nearly as raven-harsh as Sigdrifa’s. Bjarni’s hair was brownish-black but he was more athletic than burly.

            Up close, the board was even sparser than she realised. Balgruuf had honey and meat and alcohol at most meals; here, it was gruel, snowberries and small ale. The servant took her pack, presumably to a guest room, and Callaina was too tired to care.

            “You look like shit,” Sigdrifa said bluntly. “Where’s your huscarl?”

            “I left her and the axe back in Whiterun. Too many people trying to make plans around me.” Callaina dug into the thick porridge and tasted dried snowberries with a bit of blue mountain flower. “I resigned from my post as Falkreath’s tax assessor. Didn’t seem appropriate to hold the job since I’m too busy running around trying to save the world. You were right about Rikke though. She and Balgruuf want me to become the next Empress.”

            “Even a Dragonborn Empress wouldn’t stop our fight for Skyrim’s freedom,” Ulfric said with equal bluntness.

            “I figured that. Besides, we few survivors of the northern Colovian clans swore oaths on the bronze dragon-statue in the Temple of the One never to seek the Ruby Throne or raise arms against the Empire. It was that or enjoy the hospitality of the Thalmor,” she replied.

            “That explains your desire to avoid the war,” Ulfric said softly. “Oathbreaking or kinslaughter. Both unfathomable choices to the true Nord.”

            “Yeah. My paternal lineage are traitors. Technically so are you lot. And the gods made me the Dragonborn.” Callaina smiled crookedly. “If this is a joke, it’s a bigger one than-“

            “Skyrim’s tax system. We know.” Ulfric slumped back in his chair and rubbed his broken nose. “Your Voice would tip the balance but… I’m not sure any victory where I make the Dragonborn break an oath made on the body of Martin Septim is one worth having.”

            She’d eaten half the porridge. “Once I’ve had some sleep, I’ll check on the wounded at the Temple of Talos. I know how to make basic potions and use a couple healing spells.”

            “Thank you, kinswoman.” Ulfric’s voice was grateful. “But isn’t that edging close to breaking your oath?”

            “The explicit oath I made was ‘raise arms against the Empire’,” Callaina told him. “Technically I’d be breaking my oath as an Imperial bureaucrat by giving aid and comfort to the enemy by healing the wounded but since I’m no longer one…”

            She shook her head. “I don’t know whether to hope you win or lose, Ulfric, because of the effect on the greater world stage. All I know is that you better make plans to hide my brothers because Titus Mede will show no mercy and respect no sanctuary if you fail.”

            “I know.” His voice was grim. “I won’t lose, Korlaina. You deal with the dragons and I will win the war.”


	11. The Temple of Talos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for euthanasia and mentions of death, violence, torture, fantastic racism, genocide, religious persecution and war crimes. Loads of head-canon concerning Kyne and her place amongst the Nords.

 

“So that’s the Dragonborn. Hmmph.”

            Ralof helped himself to a second bowl of porridge after Jorleif had guided Callaina to a guest bedroom. The southern Nord was a strong warrior in the prime of his life, one who had never known the sort of scarring defeat most of the Great War survivors did. Ulfric toyed with his flagon of small ale and watched his family through half-lidded eyes. Did the Dragonborn realise the quality of information – and the impetus to act – that she’d given?

            It was the lean time between summer’s end and the first frost, when the last harvests and hunts were preserved for the long winter ahead. The Stormcloak warriors were turned towards bringing in salmon, horker and venison while the farmers eked out the last grain crops and cosseted precious autumn leafy vegetables to be pickled against the bleeding gum disease. Even in the south where the winter wasn’t so harsh, Balgruuf’s storehouses would be full of grain and produce, the harvest taxes brought in by his zealous Steward Proventus. Surplus that could allow his army to wage a campaign through the snows, a theatre of war that General Tullius wouldn’t know that well.

            “She is what she is. I shudder to think what consequences the Dragonborn, an aspect of Akatosh, breaking an oath made on the remains of an Avatar of the Time-Dragon would face.” His voice was mild but Ralof rightfully flushed to the roots of his golden hair.

            “Apologies, my Jarl.” The warrior ate some of his porridge. “It’s just… _her_?”

            “Why not?” Bjarni asked challengingly. He was at the age where he questioned authority on principle and had a boy’s understanding of honour.

            “She’s broken,” Ulfric’s new agent said bluntly.

            “A broken blade can still stab the enemy,” Egil observed. Pious and pragmatic, older than his years, he worshipped Stendarr instead of Talos.

            Jorleif returned, shaking his head. “Poor woman’s out like a snuffed candle. You’d think a Thane of Whiterun would have a retinue or at least a huscarl.”

            “I suspect she’s broken ties with Balgruuf,” Ulfric said, leaning forward. “Spread the word around that the Dragonborn can’t fight for Skyrim because of an unjust oath sworn on the body of Martin Septim.”

            His Steward’s eyes narrowed. “That will forestall any mutters. At least if she’s helping the war-wounded…”

            “Precisely.” Ulfric nodded to Jorleif. “And talk to Wuunferth about some appropriate supplies. Korlaina is more of a mage whose specialty is Alteration, so he’ll know what she’ll need.”

            “Yes, my Jarl.” Jorleif leaned over and grabbed some bread, which he smeared with snowberry jam. “The Dragonborn gave me her alchemical supplies. Cracked wheat, mountain flowers, Dragon’s Tongue, creep cluster and enough jazbay grapes to open a winery.”

            “Useful,” Sigdrifa said. “I’ll get the servants to prepare them.”

            His wife slumped back in her chair and sighed. “Balgruuf’s trying to have his sweet roll and eat it too, Ulfric.”

            Sigdrifa would have noticed the importance of Callaina’s news before anyone else. “Yes. When Galmar returns, we need to talk.”

            Everyone’s demeanour changed. Ralof sat up and put his spoon in his bowl, the boys shifted in their seats with expectant expressions and Jorleif took a seat across from Ulfric. Sigdrifa leaned forward, losing her pained expression. “It’s time?”

            “Yes. I can’t allow Balgruuf to strengthen his ties to the Legion.” Ulfric met the eyes of his inner circle. “This will be a winter war.”

            “Let me show you the power of Talos Stormcrown, born of the North, where my breath is long winter’,” Sigdrifa quoted softly.

            “Yes.” Ulfric looked at the woman who had brought the Dragonborn into the world. “Rikke and the Nord Legionnaires will be our biggest threat. That is why the war in the northern marches will be your domain, Stormsword.”

            “I’ll keep her pinned down there, see if I can talk some sense into her,” Sigdrifa promised. “It isn’t the Septim Empire now and so her shieldmaiden’s oath no longer counts.”

            “I hope you can.” Ulfric would mourn Rikke but if she had to die, then so be it.

            “So do I.” The Stormsword looked to Bjarni. “You’re a touch young for it but I want you down in Falkreath. We need the Hammerfell and Cyrodiil borders secure. Work your way up to Thane and then challenge Siddgeir for the Stag Throne.”

            Ulfric’s fists clenched. He’d been seventeen when he went to war, a full two years older than Bjarni. But Callaina’s warnings about the Imperials not respecting youth or sanctuary rang through his mind. “So be it. We’ll secure Falkreath once we take Whiterun.”

            “And I, Father?” Egil asked quietly.

            “Winterhold,” Ulfric decided. “Something’s going on there and Korir refuses to engage with the College.”

            Sigdrifa was already shaking her head. “Korlaina’s already going there, Ulfric. Ask her to sort it out.”

            “You put that much trust into her?” Jorleif asked.

            “She should be heading to Ustengrav yet after a visit to Whiterun, she’s detouring to Winterhold,” Sigdrifa said. “I don’t think it’s to learn more about dragons, not with the mages meddling in Saarthal.”

            “That ‘Thalmor advisor’ of theirs,” Ulfric rumbled.

            “My source tells me he’s about as popular as the Breton pox at a whorehouse,” Sigdrifa chuckled. “Savos Aren is much like Kodlak – trying to remain neutral. The mages are a powerful resource and if we lose them, Winterhold will die.”

            “You value the mages over Jarl Korir?” Galmar asked, stomping in.

            “The mages bring more to Skyrim than he does,” Sigdrifa responded bluntly. “Winterhold’s also the kind of place I think my daughter can do some good as Thane or Arch-Mage.”

            Galmar grunted. “Or both. The Hero-Twin Farkas is here looking for Korlaina by the way.”

            “Offer him hospitality. She’s asleep at the moment.” Ulfric scratched his bearded chin. “Is he alone?”

            “No. Njada came up with him. Kodlak had a premonition that the College was going to do something stupid and that only the Dragonborn could deal with it.” Galmar’s mouth quirked to the side. “But I tell you something you already know.”

            “Korlaina said nothing but she was tired,” Ulfric told him. “How’s Rolff?”

            “Drunk off his arse as always. Your stepdaughter made him look more of an idiot than usual and then told me he might drive the Dunmer to become Imperial spies out of spite.” Galmar sat down and helped himself to the last of the porridge. “Do you think she’s right?”

            “Talos’ conquest of Hammerfell was achieved by the supporting of the Forebears, the disenfranchised common faction of the Redguards, against the ruling Crowns,” Egil replied. “We need to win the Argonians and Dunmer over to our side.”

            Ulfric looked at his younger son. “Then that is the task I set you, Egil. Unify the population of Windhelm.”

            A future High King regarded Ulfric from Sigdrifa’s turquoise eyes in a boyish face. “I will. Talos conquered lands but it was Stendarr who taught Him how to rule justly and unify the races.”

            “May it be so.” Ulfric looked at his family. “Skyrim will be free by spring or we will be dead. There can be no middle ground.”

…

Farkas found Korli the next day in the Temple of Talos, her arms red to the elbows with the blood and guts of injured Stormcloaks. Her scent was bitter and sharp like jazbay grapes, notes of pain and grief lingering underneath. She should have waited until the next morning when he and Njada were free to accompany her. Kodlak had given her a job and while she was doing it, she was part of the Companions.

            “Can you set bones?” she asked without preamble or greeting, nodding down to the young Rifter with a grotesquely broken leg.

            “Yes,” he confirmed.

            “I can’t set and heal at the same time.”

            The Rifter howled as her leg was snapped back into place. Every Companion was taught some rough field medicine, another one of Kodlak’s innovations. The only sign of magic being used was the golden light surrounding Korli’s hands as she sealed bone and tissue halfway. He didn’t know spells could be cast quietly.

            “Half the soldiers who leave here will be maimed or lamed,” she said grimly, pushing aside a lock of sweaty black hair with the back of her hand, olive-bronze features streaked with crimson. “I don’t know who I’m angrier with – Ulfric for rebelling or the Empire for putting him in a position where he felt he had to.”

            “Be angry with the Thalmor who made it happen,” he advised. “Skjor says they started all of this.”

            “True enough.” She sighed and had two Stormcloaks, both Rifters with similar features to the girl, lift her patient off the pallet. “Jora, anyone else?”

            “For good or ill, we’ve saved all we can,” the Priestess of Talos responded with a sigh. “Thank you, Dragonborn.”

            Farkas looked around the spartan Temple. The pews had been removed and replaced with rows of pallets, women and a couple men in bloodstained clothing tending to the dying. One of them, a hard-eyed older woman with hawk feathers in her hair, was speaking briefly to each still-conscious soldier or someone who knew the unconscious ones. The Companion shivered. The Valkyria was a rare sight in central and western Skyrim, a relic of the days when Kynareth was worshipped as Kyne Kiss-at-the-End, the goddess who sent the worthy to Sovngarde. He didn’t even know one still existed.

            Every warrior she found worthy, she wrapped their hands around their weapon (or a convenient iron dagger) and sped them to Sovngarde with a swift knife to the heart. The cowards were left to die slowly, awaiting the judgment of Arkay.

            “Somehow this is the most Nordic thing I’ve seen all day,” Korli said softly beside him. “I feel like I should understand this… but I don’t.”

            “In the old ways, Kynareth is Kyne, the goddess of storms, the Mother of Men and the Kiss at the End,” Farkas explained in a whisper. “She’s Shor’s warrior-widow who gave men the Thu’um to rebel against the dragons and the one who leads them to Sovngarde, where they test their strength against Tsun the Shield-Thane, who decides if they’re worthy of the Hall of Valour or not.”

            Jora joined them. “The Valkyria is the Chooser of the Slain. The followers of the Old Ways aren’t always friends to we who worship Talos but a mutual enemy can make for strange alliances.”

            “Your Talos took a mantle not His,” the Valkyria told her tartly. “But if He dies, we all do.”

            “Talos was very good at taking things that wasn’t His,” Korli agreed with a sigh. “It is the nature of the dovahhe to covet what isn’t theirs. I acknowledge His divinity but I have to acknowledge the fact He was kind of an arsehole.”

            The Valkyria cackled as Jora gasped in horror. “Dragonborn, that’s blasphemy!”

            “It’s plain bloody truth,” Korli said with some asperity. “Take it from the woman with the dragon’s soul.”

            “And what do _you_ covet, Dovahkiin?” the Valkyria asked, turning hawk-sharp eyes onto Korli. “Power? Glory?”

            “I envy anyone who gets to live their lives in peace,” Korli said sadly.

            “Life is a struggle to make the souls of men stronger,” the iron-haired priestess responded, though with a hint of compassion. “A broken blade can still slay the enemy.”

            Korli went pale as snow, a neat trick for her. “How-?”

            “I divined it from the guts of the slain woven on my loom of bones,” the Valkyria said dryly. “The Wheel can’t turn backwards, Kah-Lah-Nah, but it turns on you. Get to Winterhold and close the eye. Then do what you were born to do.”

            She turned away and returned to the job of speeding the dying to Sovngarde.

            “I think I’m much more comfortable with Kynareth than Kyne,” the Dragonborn said in a shaky voice. “I- I need to talk to my mother. Farkas, I’m sorry-“

            The big warrior leaned over to kiss her forehead, tasting half-dried copper. “Go talk. I’m staying at the Candlehearth Hall. Pick me and Njada up when you’re heading to Winterhold.”

            “Yeah, I will.” She gave him a wan smile and left the Temple.

            Interestingly enough, Jora herself looked shaken. “By the Nine,” she breathed. “The stories are true.”

            “What stories?” Farkas asked.

            But the Priestess wouldn’t say anything more.


	12. The Broken Blade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism.

 

“…You broke into the tomb of the Greybeards’ founder, stole their most sacred relic and left a note.”

            Irkand wasn’t sure to be appalled or impressed at Delphine’s temerity. They were sharing a bottle of Alto wine and a roast pheasant in her cellar hideout, catching up on their respective missions.

            “I had to improvise, okay?” the Breton said defensively after a swig of wine. “If your niece wants to join the Greybeards’ little cult, she’ll have to come to me.”

            “Have you thought beyond making contact?” Irkand asked mildly. “She’s not the most obedient Aurelii.”

            “Few dragons are. But I, ah, have acquired some information that might pique her interest.” Delphine leaned over and whispered something in his ear that made an eyebrow rise.

            “How in Oblivion did you discover _that_?”

            “Sources, Irkand, sources.” Delphine flashed an impish grin. “If we play along, we force her to take an interest in politics.”

            “It’s certainly promising but what of the genuine article?”

            “Pfft, what can they do? They’re has-beens, Irkand. Hell, we might even improve their reputation a bit.”

            Irkand thought the Breton was being far too cocky about this but sadly, making plans was her forte and carrying them out his. “Very well. I will schedule the, ah, event for my next visit to Solitude.”

            “Do it in beast form if possible. They have a werewolf amongst their ranks.”

            “Hiding in plain sight? Very well.” Irkand sighed. “I just hope word doesn’t get back to the Companions.”

            “Don’t worry about them.” Delphine smiled and drank a little more wine. “I’ll leak the location of a shard of Wuuthrad or two. That will keep them busy.”

            “Good. Skjor’s still a friend even if the rest have taken Callaina’s side in this.” Irkand sighed and gnawed on his pheasant leg. “We spoilt that girl.”

            “Half of you spoilt her and the rest treated her like crap. Good way to make a dovah self-centred and think the world’s against her.” Delphine shrugged. “I’ve got a couple rankers willing to work with us. The Empire needs to stay together no matter what.”

            “You think Ulfric will go along with it?”

            “Not necessarily. Sigdrifa’s smarter though. She’ll see the wisdom in our actions.”

            Irkand finished his meal. “I hope you’re right. Because if we fail…”

            “Failure’s not an option. Not with the world at stake.”

            “I must admit, this will achieve more than killing random Thalmor.”

…

The sheathed sword lay across her lap. Ivory sheath trimmed with dark gold, the dragon reliefs worn by time and much handling. The hilt’s wrapping was coarse-grained and scaled, a dark bronze that shimmered in the firelight, and the pommel was a simple golden disk inset with an onyx oval like a dragon’s eye. Anyone with half a knowledge of weapons would recognise it as the katana, the signature sword of the Akaviri Dragonguard and their successors the Blades.

            “I took that when I went on the mission to save Ulfric.” Sigdrifa’s voice was soft and reverent. “The Blades had left it in their armoury, uncaring or unknowing of its history. But the Shieldmaidens remembered it.”

            “It isn’t every day you get a genuine relic of Talos,” Callaina observed dryly. “The last was the armour, right?”

            “Yes. Used in Martin Septim’s ritual to send Aurelia Northstar to the Mythic Dawn’s stronghold to retrieve the Amulet of Kings.” Sigdrifa sighed and studied her hands. “That armour was forged by our forefather, you know. Sigwulf Iron-Stag, the Jarl of Falkreath after Culhecain’s death.”

            “And this was forged by the Aurelii to symbolise their submission to Talos.” Callaina echoed the sigh. “They were masterless Akaviri warriors and he was a Dragonborn. Mess made in Oblivion.”

            “Why?” her mother asked.

            “Because pair unthinkingly obedient minions with a ruthless warlord convinced he’s meant to rule the world and you get the current clusterfuck we’re facing,” Callaina told her. “They corrupted each other, I think.”

            “That’s a bleak view of history,” Sigdrifa observed. “Well…?”

            Callaina set one hand to the hilt and the other to the sheath before pulling.

            It was unsheathed in moments, showing about a foot of blade that had been snapped at the end. According to the stories, only the Septims could unsheathe the katana.

            “Arius would have won a lot more allies if he’d unsheathed that sword in front of the Jarls,” Sigdrifa finally said.

            “No. Mother, we both know he was crazy. The Northstar’s grandson and all.” She sheathed the katana once more. “Balgruuf and the other Jarls would have been too smart to follow him.”

            She dropped the sword on the floor. “This changes nothing, you know.”

            “Of course. The Septim Empire is done.” Sigdrifa’s tone was too mild for Callaina’s comfort. “Besides, you have Winterhold and Alduin to worry about. Deal with that and leave the politics to us.”

            “What are you planning?” she asked, eyes narrowed.

            “Best you don’t know, Callaina. You can’t help us in this.”

            _Great, they’re stepping up the war._ “The carnage from Giant’s Gap was horrific. How can you…?”

            “Every Stormcloak is a volunteer and Galmar was outflanked at the Gap.” Sigdrifa sighed. “We need to make a new Skyrim and that Skyrim will need people like you. _Winterhold_ needs someone who understands magic and administration. You won’t be fighting Alduin forever.”

            “Doesn’t Winterhold already have a Jarl?”

            “Yes, Korir. I’m hoping you can achieve some influence with both him and the Arch-Mage, talk a little sense into them.” She didn’t sound too hopeful about that.

            “That will fuck with any stance of neutrality I take-.” Callaina laughed low and bitterly. “That’s already happened, hasn’t it?”

            “When you tended to the wounded of Giant’s Gap, you gave the ‘enemy’ aid and comfort,” Sigdrifa said quietly. “The Legion won’t look kindly on that.”

            _“Better to choose than have it chosen for you.”_ Sigdrifa’s words from Ivarstead echoed through her mind.

            “Did I choose or was it chosen for me?” Callaina asked aloud.

            “That depends on whether you believe the gods intervene in our lives or not.” Sigdrifa leaned over and tapped her nose. “With the oath Titus Mede forced on you, was there any other path you could take to keep your freedom?”

            “I don’t know,” the Dragonborn sighed. “I really don’t know.”

…

“Sure you wanna boat to Winterhold? Old Nurelion wants us to go to the Forsaken Cave to find the White Phial,” Farkas rumbled as Korli explained her travel plans. “You, me, Njada can make short work of the draugr there.”

            “Even if we spend a half-day in the cave, we’ll get to Winterhold by dusk,” Njada added coaxingly.

            “The White Phial’s a myth,” Korli pointed out.

            Farkas held up a glass vial of some vivid green mixture. “Not according to Nurelion.”

            “Give me a look at that!” She uncorked the vial and sniffed at it, wrinkling her nose at the astringent odour. “Hanging moss, glowing mushroom and canis root. Good for strengthening your body and your sword-arm.”

            “See? Curalmil was an alchemist. You might notice stuff we won’t,” Njada pointed out.

            “There’s a point. And gods know I’ll need some potions to trade.” She sighed and hugged herself. “Ulfric’s court wizard tried to give me a king’s ransom in mage robes and enchanted jewellery. Things are sticky enough at the moment without me borrowing trouble by accepting expensive gifts.”

            “You’re Ulfric’s stepdaughter,” Njada told her. “You should be outfitted appropriately.”

            “No. Bad enough I’ve inherited a rather awkward relic.” She touched the katana strapped to her waist. Fancy sheath and everything, though it hung a bit light for its size. Probably that ‘broken blade’ that made her look like she’d seen a wight when the Valkyria mentioned it. “I just want to settle this Winterhold business and then get back to the dragons.”

            “Sweet Talos,” Njada breathed. “You’re descended-“

            “From an arsehole warlord who drowned Tamriel in blood, a lunatic who became a Daedric Prince and a Grandmaster with delusions of Imperial rule,” Korli interrupted acidly. “Not every ‘heroic bloodline’ is a blessing, Njada. Sometimes it’s a burden that ruins your life.”

            Farkas flashed the whelp a warning glance before she pressed the issue. “Well, none of them will have a thing on the great mage who’ll save Tamriel from the World-Eater,” he assured her.

            “I’m not a mage, Farkas. I’m just a tax assessor who’s inadvertently found herself on the awkward side of the civil war.” Korli sighed again. “I’m going to be on the Legion’s shit list. But the other choices…”

            She shook her head. “Fine. We leave at dawn tomorrow and get the White Phial before heading to Winterhold. All this talk of eyes and mages meddling in Saarthal scares the whey out of me.”

            Njada nodded. “I’ll see you tomorrow. So, uh, is it Aurelia Callaina Septim or just Callaina Septim?”

            Korli’s expression was bleak. “It’s just Callaina. The Empire of the Septims is over and done with.”

            “Oh.” Njada wisely took herself off to the room she’d hired, leaving them alone in Farkas’ room.

            “Besides, in the old Colovian way, it would be Septima Aurelia Callaina,” she said softly. “Men define their families and women are defined by them.”

            “Don’t let old gods and dead heroes define you,” Farkas growled. “Reckon none of them would be able to save a soldier’s leg that’d been snapped in two different places.”

            “You set it, I just healed it.” Her mouth quirked to the side. “That soldier will limp all her days.”

            “Better that than the straw-death,” he pointed out. “So what’s your plan for Winterhold?”

            She glanced at her feet. “I’m not sure. There’s more problems than just this ‘eye’. The Jarl blames the mages for the Great Collapse and the College flat-out ignores the Jarl. And because I tended the war-wounded at the Temple, I’ve effectively sided with the Stormcloaks, so now Mother and Ulfric expect me to sort out everything.”

            The werewolf shifted on his feet. “You’ve been going in that direction since you left Dragonsreach, Korli.”

            Her expression was pained. “You think so?”

            “I know so.” Farkas looked down at the slender Colovian Nord. Such narrow shoulders on which the world rested. “You can let the world push you or you can push back. The choice is yours.”

            “The next person who calls you an idiot is going to get punched in the face,” she said with a sigh. “I’m as broken as the Sword of the Septims, Farkas.”

            “As the Valkyria said, even a broken blade can stab the enemy,” he countered. “Now, you gonna have something to eat? Me and Njada brought in some deer so there’s venison stew on the menu.”

            That made her frown for some unknown reason. “It’s harvest. Even with a war on, you’d think everyone would have having a feast or something, but they’re living on starvation rations.”

            “Up here, there’s five seasons,” he explained. “Winter, the First Hungry Time, Sowing Time, Summer and the Second Hungry Time. We’re in the season of the last hunts and harvests before the first frost hardens the ground. That means everything has to be preserved to get us through winter. Down south, it’s easier, but up here they’ve gotta be strict about it. Nothing goes to waste. There’s a Slaughter Feast where the organ meats that can’t be kept are eaten and the year’s dead hailed. That’s when they’ll have a decent meal.”

            Her stomach growled and he smiled. “Come on, Dragonborn. Tomorrow’s gonna be a tough day and a bellyful of venison stew will make it better.”

            She nodded. “You’re right. I just… feel like there’s a storm coming. This winter won’t be an easy one, Farkas.”

            Vilkas had warned that dragons, even Dragonborn, were capable of sensing the future. He’d better warn Kodlak on his return to Jorrvaskr. “Noted, Korli. But the storm isn’t breaking today so have a good meal and a better night’s sleep.”


	13. The Forsaken Cave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism. Head-canon for Curalmil and the White Phial. Reposting because the Butcher of Windhelm deserves his own chapter, so getting this one finished first.

 

“So who was Curalmil again?” Njada asked as she battered a draugr’s face into dust with her shield.

            “Alchemist. Reputedly half-elven, which explains the name.” Callaina tossed a firebolt at a draugr archer. “Had to be good at more than alchemy. You don’t make something like the White Phial without a knack for enchanting and Alteration.”

            Farkas bisected the chief draugr – not Curalmil, he’d be located deeper in the tomb – with a single swing of his greatsword. “For someone who doesn’t claim to be a great mage, you know a lot about it.”

            “You can say a _lot_ about the Synod, including the fact they’re jingoistic politicians whose interest in magic is more about maintaining Imperial supremacy than continuing the standards of magical training as defined by the Mages’ Guild-“ The Sword of the Septims lopped off another draugr’s sword-hand. “-But you can’t deny that they teach the relationship between the schools of magic _very_ well.”

            “Uh huh.” Fighting draugr was almost mindless. Bereft of free will, they relied on the Nine Basic Blocks and Blows, which meant a properly trained fighter could counter them instinctively. Njada had been beyond the basic training most Nords received for _years_ before she joined the Companions. Her uncle was Ulfric’s huscarl and he’d trained her alongside Bjarni and Egil Stormcloak. Sigdrifa, while a two-handed fighter like Galmar and Ralof, had taken the girl aside and taught her some of the tricks used by the Shieldmaidens. If the order wasn’t effectively dead, Njada might have joined their ranks by now. Or not – celibacy wasn’t her cup of mead.

            An eldritch glow that outlined every angle of the Dragonborn’s body turned away a third draugr’s blade long enough for Farkas to dismember it. Korli looked beyond his shoulder to see another archer and balanced the broken katana like a javelin in her hand before throwing it. The Sword sank to the hilt in the draugr’s chest, the icy glow in its eyes fading. She gestured, green light flaring around her left hand, and the weapon came flying back seemingly of its own accord.

            The draugr were dead. Well, deader than they’d been before. No more undead would rise after their work today in the Forsaken Cave. Njada lowered her shield and watched Korli down another magicka vial with a grimace. The Dragonborn could hold her own but her stamina, physical and magical, was woeful thanks to her being a former Imperial bureaucrat.

            “So what’s the connection between schools?” Farkas asked curiously. The Circle repeatedly told the whelps that no knowledge was ever wasted and that they should listen to anyone willing to teach.

            “As I was saying before, Curalmil was likely a master enchanter and adept Alteration mage in addition to being an extraordinary alchemist. In the Synod, you have to learn the basics of enchanting and alchemy before they even let you learn the Candlelight spell – because in order to shape reality itself, you need to understand the forces you’re manipulating.” Korli slumped against a wall, eyes half-closing as her magicka slowly returned. “Before I was, uh, transferred to the Provincial Revenue Office, I’d mastered the Apprentice spells and was a damn sight closer to testing for Adept – the minimum rank I could leave the Synod as a free mage – than people realised.”

            Njada unslung her shield to check the grip. After the Dragonborn’s outburst, she’d gone to the Palace of the Kings to vent her frustration. Not wanting to rule a corrupt and dying Empire, the Stone-arm could understand. But not fighting for your family when you knew what awaited them if they lost…?

            Egil had set her straight on why Korli couldn’t fight. The Empire had done a good job of breaking the last Septim. Except they’d left a sharp edge that could still stab them where it hurt.

            “So what can you do magically?” Njada asked. “I know you can lift several dozen rocks and turn aside a blade.”

            “As long as my magicka holds out, I can cast all Novice spells, Magelight and Stoneflesh – frankly, Oakflesh is more bang for my septim because it’s ridiculously cheap for me to cast in comparison to Stoneflesh – and Telekinesis and Transmute at the Adept level,” was the Dragonborn’s reply. “That rock stunt involved me casting Telekinesis and a _very_ dangerous spell called Equilibrium – I used my own life force to increase my magicka temporarily because throwing around Apprentice-level Destruction spells had drained me too much.”

            “Could you drain someone else?” Njada asked warily.

            “With a weapon enchanted with a life or magic drain effect, sure,” Korli confirmed. “But life drain spells are a corrupted form of Restoration magic and while I have the Apprentice-level Healing Hands spell in that school, I don’t have the skill or desire to learn such things.”

            She pushed herself from the wall. “Let’s check this gate. If it’s jammed, you’ll get to see Transmute in action.”

            Njada didn’t get to see that spell as they ventured deeper into the tomb. They finally reached the sanctum, Farkas heading straight for Curalmil – tall and lanky for a king-draugr – while the two women took on the lesser draugr. It was a tough fight but they got through it once Korli Shouted Curalmil to his knees. Farkas did the rest.

            Soon enough, they found the alchemist’s burial goods – the White Phial, which was precious stalhrim and cracked, an enchanted ring and a sword that was warm to the touch – in addition to a nice lot of gold ingots, ancient-style armour like Aela wore (heirloom from her ancestors) and two books that Korli pocketed. The Dragonborn looked around the ancient alchemist’s room wonderingly as she helped herself to the moss and mushrooms growing within.

            “We could probably buy Winterhold with all this,” Farkas drawled. “Go back to Windhelm and be rid of it or move on to hope that Birna and Nelacar’s gonna have the coin?”

            Korli looked down at her homespun dress, which was about two steps off being a rag by now, it’d been mended so much. “I need new clothing and a thicker cloak.”

            “Wuunferth offered you some damn fine mage robes,” Njada pointed out in some exasperation.

            “And marking myself as a mage will only put Jarl Korir’s back up,” she shot back. “Also, wearing Master-style robes when I’m not even an Adept is asking for trouble with the College.”

            “Windhelm it is then,” Farkas rumbled. “I’ll take you to Revyn Sadri in the Grey Quarter. Niranye has the better selection but her sources are… suspect. I think she’s with the Thieves’ Guild myself.”

            “That’s an Altmer name,” Korli observed.

            “Yeah, there’s a few in Windhelm. There’s old Nurelion, Ulumil and his missus down at the stables… Niranye’s new. I think they’re refugees from the Thalmor. Can’t see Ulfric letting them live otherwise.” Farkas’ heavy shoulders shrugged. “We’ll take the boat to Winterhold. If we beat feet, we can make the night ferry.”

            Korli carefully tucked away the broken Phial. “Good idea. I’m _really_ worried about what level of clusterfuck awaits me in Winterhold if it’s more urgent than Alduin.”

…

“You idiot! You’ve gone and broken it!”

            Callaina met Nurelion’s faded saffron eyes. “More likely Curalmil broke it. I know a bit of alchemy and enchanting but nothing on the level it would take to destroy something made of stalhrim.”

            The ancient Altmer sighed. “I suppose not. It’s just…”

            “I know. You should have seen his alchemy setup. Even thousands of years later it was amazing.”

            He looked blindly into the distance. “I suppose at least _someone_ who appreciates the art got to…”

            Nurelion shook his head and pressed a few coins into her hand. “Spread that amongst your friends and help yourselves to the potions you need.”

            “Thanks.” She managed to keep the dryness from her voice as the ancient Altmer shuffled upstairs.

            His Nibenese apprentice approached her. Njada was selling the finer examples of ancient Nord weapons and armour to Oengus War-Anvil while Farkas acquired supplies for the trip to Winterhold in the Grey Quarter. Quintus was a short, apple-cheeked young man whose fingers were stained with herbs. “Sorry about that,” he said, giving her a heavier bag of coin. “He’s just disappointed.”

            “I understand,” she told him. “Can I use the alchemy table?”

            “Go ahead.” Quintus sighed and looked upstairs. “I’ll buy anything you made up because I think I’ll be spending the next few weeks making his last days comfortable.”

            “Done.” Callaina smiled thinly and reached for her bag of herbs.

            Her purse much heavier, she met Farkas and Njada in front of Candlehearth Hall. “I have some healing poultices and the coin from Quintus for you,” she told the duo, handing over the bag. “Hanging moss and crushed blue mountain flowers can be put directly on the wound instead of having to drink a healing potion.”

            “Thanks.” Farkas smiled down at her and Callaina blushed, glad the ruddy light of sunset would hide her scarlet cheeks. “I found you a new dress and cloak.”

            Njada snickered. “If you hurry, you can help her into it, Farkas.”

            “If _you_ hurry, you might just avoid my ice spike,” Callaina retorted tartly.

            The shieldmaiden’s laughter was delighted. “I knew it! You’re sweet on-“

            A high sharp scream cut through her laughter, killing any merriment. The trio looked at each other and following Njada, they ran towards the graveyard. Someone – male judging by the body-shape – in a burnt ochre tunic vanished around the corner as a curvaceous blonde in a low-cut dress gasped her last on someone’s tombstone. Callaina, used to triage, immediately realised that the gaping wounds in her throat and chest were fatal.

            “Susanna the Wicked,” Njada breathed. “Oh gods, everybody loved her!”

            As the guard rushed into the graveyard, Callaina shuddered. “I don’t think we’re going to be catching the night ferry to Winterhold.”

            Farkas inhaled deeply. “No, I don’t. We have a killer to catch.”


	14. The Butcher of Windhelm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and the desecration of a corpse. The Blood on the Ice quest will run somewhat differently because I think it could have been structured better (and I have a werewolf with keen senses).

 

“…You mean to tell me a murderer who’s killed the daughters of two prominent clans and several other women you’ve not paid attention to has been running around for a whole month?”

            Egil Ulfricsson could have chilled a cup of blood-warm ale from the icy outrage that dripped from his sister’s voice. The Dragonborn had missed the night ferry to Winterhold after almost witnessing the Butcher in action; whatever imminent disaster awaited the College and the lingering threat of the World-Eater paled in comparison to the immediate threat of a murderer. Jorleif was white as snow under the scorn that burned in Callaina’s eyes and even Yrsarald Thrice-Pierced, the Stormcloak commander of the Eastmarch warband, couldn’t meet those turquoise chips of sea-ice. Even if the strong lines and square jaw of the Stormsword were altered by a beaky Colovian nose and a wide generous mouth, none could doubt her maternal ancestry in this moment.

            “We tried a sting,” Jorleif said weakly. “The Butcher evaded it.”

            Callaina took a deep breath and released it explosively; with it went the outrage, if not the anger. “Give me authority to investigate. Whatever you can rightfully say about the Empire, you can’t deny its bureaucrats are trained well – and there’s little difference in the techniques to track someone who’s been cheating the tax system for years and a killer beyond the severity of the crime.”

            Jorleif slanted a gaze at Egil. Since his father had turned the task of uniting Windhelm over to him, the fourteen-year-old found himself responsible for far more than meeting the Argonian and Dunmer leaders. Ulfric’s mind turned towards the winter campaign he was planning, leaving the day-to-day business of his city to Egil, Jorleif and Yrsarald. Stendarr help him, he feared it might be too much.

            “You have that authority on the condition you report to us every step of the way,” Egil finally told his sister. “It isn’t a measure of how much or little we trust you, kinswoman. It is that as a Colovian Nord, you may miss things we will notice – or vice versa.”

            She nodded shortly. “Understood. Farkas tells me that the blood spoor leads to… Valunstrad?”

            “The Avenue of Valour. Where our greatest clans and citizens live.” Already Egil foresaw this treading on Thane toes.

            “I’ll investigate that lead first. If we have an idea of _where_ this Butcher was going…” She pinched the bridge of her nose, a sign of strain the Stormsword shared. “Habitual killers usually have something they’re hooked on and a modus operandi – mode of operation. Assuming files are being kept of each victim, I’d appreciate them being made available.”

            “You sound familiar with such things,” Yrsarald noted neutrally.

            “When I was in the Imperial District of Morrowind, I fell into a Legion investigation of a habitual killer because of a tax discrepancy on the gift of some jewellery,” she replied. “Turned out he liked to kill womer and gift their adornments to his wife because he, ah, enjoyed seeing her wear them.”

            “What happened?” Egil asked curiously.

            “We couldn’t quite prove he was the killer, so House Redoran called the Morag Tong on him.” She shrugged under her shabby fur cloak. “Once I’ve checked out the blood spoor and the files, I’ll speak to your local Priest of Arkay.”

            “Understood.” Egil nodded to his sister. “Stendarr guide you, kinswoman.”

            “And you, little brother.” She sketched a curtsey and turned for the doors, where the giant Hero-Twin Farkas loomed like a protective gargoyle. According to Njada, those two were in the first stages of courting.

            “Didn’t she mean ‘women’ earlier?” Yrsarald asked in some confusion.

            “No. Assuming the murder victims were Dunmer, the females are correctly called womer,” Egil responded. “Of all the things to wonder, Thrice-Pierced, you ask _that_?”

            The commander looked unrepentant. “It’s not my problem what female elves are called, Lord Egil.”

            “You command the guard here in Windhelm,” Egil informed him. “It has become your problem.”

            Jorleif cleared his throat delicately. “I’ll find what files the guards have on the victims.”

            “Good idea.” Egil slumped back in his chair and poured himself a cup of small ale. He envied Bjarni the simple task of liberating Falkreath. He got intransigent guards, bitter Dunmer and wary Argonians. If this killer was a dark elf…

            The commons would solve the racial tensions by the simple expedient of burning the Grey Quarter to the ground. Talos worshippers tended towards genocide as a means of solving problems, which only fuelled new hatred on top of the old.

            “Do you trust Korlaina?” Yrsarald asked warily.

            Egil threw him a surprised glance. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I? She’s my sister and the Dragonborn.”

            “She’s Colovian and… well…” The commander paused uneasily.

            “And?”

            “A nithing. Surely a true daughter of the Septims would not bow to Titus Mede and swear on the corpse of her ancestor to never seek the Ruby Throne.”

            Egil recalled a talk he had with his father last year upon killing his first ice-wraith. Bjarni and he, accompanied by Ralof, got the bright idea of chasing after the frost spirits to be counted as men. Sometimes he wondered if he should have waited a year or so as Ulfric piled on responsibility after responsibility.

            “I know little of what happened in Bruma and the Cloud Ruler Temple,” he finally said. “But my father said that anyone can be broken and in that breaking become the worst kind of nithing. It’s what you do afterwards that defines you as a person.”

            He drank some of his ale. “That oath, however unjust, spared the Dragonborn to face Alduin World-Eater. To be honest, I’m relieved she’s not a warrior like my parents. Imagine a Dragonborn who could command armies and developed a desire to rule. The Empire is still the Empire, even if she was sitting on its throne.”

            “I didn’t see it like that.” Yrsarald adjusted his bearskin mantle.

            Egil sighed. “I have to. Korlaina has chosen our side and no one denies her right to the Sword of the Septims. But her lack of ambition is the greatest gift she can give Skyrim.”

            He could just imagine Bjarni frowning at him for such a cynical statement. His big brother was the epitome of Nord honour, a great-hearted warrior who would make a good Jarl in Falkreath, who’d been ruled by the corrupt and the senile for over a decade. Egil worshipped Stendarr, who demanded more than simple honour from His followers.

            “Come to me, Stendarr, for without you, I might be deaf to the manswarm murmurings of thy people, and forgetting their need for comfort and wisdom, I might indulge myself in vain scribbling,” he murmured. True, it was the Imperial litany from the time of the Septims, but it was no less true in the Fourth Era.

            Jorleif entered with a slim sheaf of papers. “I found all the files,” he said.

            Egil nodded gratefully. “Thank you, Jorleif. You’d better brew up some scholar’s tea. I think few of us will rest until the Butcher is caught.”

…

“That house is Hjerim. It belongs to the Shatter-Shields. One of the victims, their eldest Friga, owned it.”

            Callaina sipped the astringent brew that Nords used as a stimulant. She would _kill_ for a good cup of Hammerfell coffee at the moment. “Thanks, Jorleif. It would make a lot of sense if the killer’s operating out of there. He’d have a key and since I _know_ that most people don’t want to go through a dead person’s home…”

            “Precisely. Tova’s the one who has the key if you want to gain access.” Jorleif drank some tea himself. “I have the files.”

            “Kynareth bless you.” She flicked through the depressingly small pile of papers. Most of the victims were Nord women in middling to good health, ranging between eighteen and thirty, and all had unusual cuts and gouges on their bodies with various body parts missing. “I’ll talk to the Priestess of Arkay next. From the reports, I can’t find the link beyond racial type and how they were murdered.”

            “Hmm.” Jorleif rubbed his chin. “Helgird might be able to tell you _how_ they died. But I think you should check Hjerim first.”

            It was just past nine. “Would Tova be receiving a guest?”

            “You’re the Dragonborn. If she won’t, Torbjorn will.”

            “Fine.” She drained the rest of her cup and set it on the table. “The sooner this is done, the sooner I can get to Winterhold.”

            It was Nilsine Shatter-Shield who answered the door when knocked. Njada had long gone to bed and Farkas was standing watch over Hjerim. “Dragonborn, how can we help you?” she asked with some surprise.

            “I’m investigating the Butcher and the trail he left from Susanna’s body led to Hjerim,” Callaina said bluntly. “I need the house key, please.”

            Nilsine ushered her in. “Please take a seat. I’ll get Mother for you.”

            Tova was wheat-blonde and red-eyed, her husband Torbjorn balding and burly. They were glad in the long fur-lined coats of cotton brocade popular in Skyrim for the nobility. According to Jorleif, they were also one of the great shipping clans of the East. “Nilsine tells me you’re investigating our Friga’s death,” Tova said hoarsely. “Shouldn’t you be worrying about dragons?”

            “Alduin’s taking his sweet time eating the world but I saw the back of the Butcher as he ran away,” Callaina answered. “I don’t like the idea of a killer running around. Farkas of the Companions tracked him to Hjerim. I need to look inside.”

            The family exchanged looks. “Get my warhammer,” Torbjorn told his wife. “I’ll go with her.”

            Tova nodded and left, soon arriving with a nasty-looking hammer in the style of Sigdrifa’s armour. It was as tall as Callaina. “If you find the killer, avenge Friga,” she told her husband.

            Torbjorn led her to Hjerim where Farkas stood silent sentinel. “No one’s shown up,” he growled. “Except that white-haired Imperial with the shrill voice.”

            “Viola Giordano,” Torbjorn groused. “Sticks her nose everywhere.”

            “Must be Nibenese,” Callaina said dryly. “They’re the biggest busybodies in Cyrodiil.”

            The door was unlocked and Farkas entered first. “No one’s here,” he said. “You can come in.”

            Callaina cast Candlelight, the faintly turquoise ball of light revolving around her as she entered the bottom floor. It had an air of disuse and abandonment. “Alright, you two, look for anything out of place. I think I can smell blood.”

            It was Torbjorn, who knew the house he’d purchased for his daughter as a dower-gift, who found the hidden room. What was hidden behind the false panel had even Farkas looking ill.

            “Necromancy,” he growled.

            Callaina swallowed back bile to investigate the pile of pamphlets on the shelf. One of them looked uneven. When she moved them, an eight-sided amulet of ebony ringed with jade fell into her hands.

            “Sweet Kynareth,” she shuddered. “You’re right, Farkas. It’s the Necromancer’s Amulet, part of Mannimarco Worm-King’s regalia.”

            Torbjorn threw her a suspicious look. “How do you know that, Dragonborn?”

            “I studied for a bit at the Imperial magic school,” she explained. “I liked to read ahead in the history books.”

            “Embalming tools,” Farkas added, examining the gruesome altar. “And a journal.”

            Callaina took a shallow breath. “Let’s take this to Egil.”

…

Egil had Wuunferth awoken immediately.

            “Answers,” the Jarl’s son said bluntly. “Your knack for Conjuration is known from the Great War.”

            “I will have you know I’m a mage in good standing with the College of Winterhold!” snapped the court wizard. “I would never practice necromancy off the battlefield!”

            “Then explain this.” Egil thrust the journal and amulet at him.

            The mage leafed through the book, grumpy frown deepening. “So. A ritual of reanimation and calling a soul back from Aetherius. This man is resurrecting a great love of his – and I assure you I’ve never loved a woman in my life.”

            “Yrsarald, check his wardrobe for an ochre tunic,” Egil ordered. “And Atmoran embalming tools.”

            Nothing was found and Wuunferth looked vindicated. “Was it Viola who gave you this idea?” he demanded. “Woman’s held a grudge for years.”

            “No, but your reputation precedes you,” Egil retorted bluntly. “What can you guess of this ritual?”

            “Well, since the Dragonborn and friends interrupted him, the killer will likely strike tomorrow night in the Stone Quarter bordering the graveyard,” Wuunferth answered. “Find an appropriate woman who can defend herself as bait and wait.”

            “I fall into the range,” Callaina said grimly. “And this is one of those things where Alteration spells are bloody useful.”

            “No,” Egil told his sister. “Your courage does you credit but we can’t risk you. You must-“

            “Stand against Alduin, yes, yes,” she said sourly. “Then unless you’ve got a hidden chain shirt or someone who knows Oakflesh up her sleeve, you’re shit out of luck as they say in the dockside taverns of Anvil. He won’t attack a warrior.”

            “Maybe not,” Farkas rumbled. The giant warrior peered at the journal still in Wuunferth’s hands. “Vilkas once told me that handwriting styles are like the way a warrior holds a sword – everyone does it a bit differently. Go through the Steward’s records and find someone who writes like that.”

            “That could take days!” Jorleif blurted.

            “Not necessarily,” Egil disagreed. “We know the killer is a man. Speak to Helgird and find out who has buried a lover or kinswoman in the past few years. She might be able to narrow it down considerably.”

            He looked to his exhausted sister. “Get some sleep. Until the morning, there’s not much we can do.”

            She set her jaw mulishly. “I’m good at going through records.”

            “And you’ve had little sleep or food over the past few days,” Egil retorted. “You’re no good to anyone dead.”

            His pragmatism made her flinch for some reason. “And here I thought someone actually cared. Fine, I’m not arguing with you, Prince Egil.”

            She sketched a curtsey and swept from the room. Farkas threw the youth a dour glance. “Nearly everyone only cares about her because she’s Dragonborn,” he rumbled. “Don’t make that mistake.”

            He followed her out, leaving Egil blinking. “Did I really come across like that?” he asked.

            “Yes,” Torbjorn said bluntly. “As for going through files, if you trust me, I’ll lend you Suvaris Atheron. She has a spell that lets her find whatever piece of paper she needs within the hour.”

            “That would be welcome,” Jorleif told him. “Suvaris is honest for a Dunmer.”

            “She’s honest, period,” Shatter-Shield countered flatly. “The Argonians might need a kick in the tail now and then but she’s never given me cause to doubt her.”

            Egil rubbed his aching eyes. “None of us are good exhausted. Let’s get some sleep. We have until tomorrow night to catch this killer.”

…

After breakfast, Callaina took herself off to the Steward’s office, only to be chivvied out by Jorleif. “Talk to Helgird,” he urged. “Suvaris and I can do the paperwork.”

            So dressed in the tan shift and darker brown dress with the fringed hem Farkas bought her, Callaina wrapped her new fox-fur cloak around herself and went to the Temple of Arkay. Helgird was in the middle of embalming Susanna, who wasn’t improved by the process. “Her friends donated a significant amount for her funeral,” the old woman explained as she put old silver coins on her eyes. “Her send-off might just put a Jarl’s to shame.”

            “I’m sure Ulfric will love that,” Callaina said dryly. “So, we’ve figured the killer’s a necromancer who’s using body parts to reanimate a beloved female.”

            “That explains the missing bits,” Helgird noted ghoulishly. “Should’ve put it together myself but I’m interring five or six people a day because of this war.”

            “Well, yes.” Callaina didn’t want to tally how many dead came from Windhelm alone. “I need to know whoever might have lost a female relative or lover in the last few years.”

            “Half of the city,” the Priestess pointed out.

            “Well, I can narrow it down to male and possibly a known mage,” she retorted tartly. “Owns an ochre tunic.”

            “Huh. Try Quintus at the White Phial or Calixto Corrium at the House of Curiosities,” she suggested. “One has the anatomical knowledge and the other likes to collect strange things.”

            Callaina nodded. “Will do. Thanks.”

…

“Oh, hey there!”

            Quintus waved eagerly at Callaina. “So I found some more information on the White Phial from Master Nurelion’s notes.”

            She smiled mechanically. “That’s… nice. But I need to know your whereabouts around sunset last night after I left your shop.”

            He blinked. “Is this about Susanna’s death?”

            Callaina looked significantly at his rumpled ochre tunic. “The Butcher was last seen wearing a tunic not unlike yours.”

            “Shit! This is a popular design Sadri sells in the Grey Quarter.” His hands nervously twisted its hem. “I was tending to Master Nurelion. The cracked Phial’s broken his heart.”

            “I’m sorry but…”

            “Look, take me before the Priests of Talos. I’ll take a test of truth.” Quintus’ round face was earnest. “I didn’t kill Susanna. I liked her.”

            “You don’t want to bring your mother back?” Callaina regarded him intently.

            “My mother-?” He was no fool and the pupil of an Altmer; his eyes narrowed. “So that’s why the women are being killed. Look, I loved my mother but she’s been dead and buried for six years now. I save lives, not take them.”

            She sighed. “Come to the Temple with me. I want to believe you but I need it confirmed.”

            “Thank you, Callaina.” He went upstairs, said something to Nurelion, and returned. “Master Nurelion reckons it’s Calixto. The man’s always been a little weird and since his sister died...”

            “Maybe so, maybe no. I have to eliminate all suspects.” Callaina nodded to the door. “Let’s go.”

…

“He’s telling the truth.”

            Callaina sighed in relief. She liked Quintus and if he’d been the killer… “Thank you, Jora.”

            “No, thank you. This killer has been endangering us all.” The Priestess blessed Quintus and gave him an Amulet of Talos, which he kissed. Navale had been a northern Colovian surname, trading family if she recalled. “Go in peace, son of Talos.”

            “Thank you, Jora.” Quintus bowed deeply and looked at Callaina. “I want to talk to you about the White Phial. I might have figured out how to repair it, sort of.”

            “Later,” she promised, intrigued. “I’m sorry for dragging you in, Quintus.”

            He shrugged. “Don’t be. You’re doing what you must. You better get to Calixto though. He’s not just weird, he’s smart.”

…

Callaina picked up Farkas at the Palace before going to the House of Curiosities, leaving a message with Yrsarald. If something went wrong-

            He wasn’t at the House. Farkas tracked him to the Candlehearth Hall, where he was telling Elda Early-Dawn a story about Ysgramor’s Spoon. Which was apparently a fork. Torbjorn was there, nursing a bottle of mead. “Found anything yet?” he asked Callaina drunkenly.

            “Maybe,” she said.

            Calixto was eyeing her. “Has anyone told you that your bone structure is exquisite?” he asked her. “You remind me of my sister.”

            “You mean the sister you’re trying to resurrect with dead women’s parts?” Farkas growled.

            Panic flashed across his face before he demanded vehemently, “ _Excuse_ me?”

            “We found your journal and the Necromancer’s Amulet at Hjerim,” Callaina said grimly. “I suspect by now Jorleif’s matched your writing to the journal-“

            The killer half-rose from his seat before Torbjorn grabbed him. “You wretched murdering nithing!” the Shatter-Shield patriarch snarled. _“You murdered my daughter!”_

            A middle-aged Colovian of indifferent fitness was no match for a Nord warrior gone to fat. Farkas pulled Callaina back as Torbjorn smashed Calixto’s head into the stout oak bar until it was nothing but red ruin. Elda’s eyes were wide but she said nothing, her fist stuffed into her mouth.

            When he let the corpse slide to the ground, Torbjorn turned to the innkeeper. “Send the bill to Suvaris,” he informed her.

            Elda nodded weakly.

            Callaina knelt by the carcass, swallowing bile, and pulled back the ochre tunic to reveal a set of tattoos. “College of Whispers,” she sighed. “Should have figured those bastards had the Necromancer’s Amulet.”

            “You know them?” Torbjorn asked, wiping blood from his hands with a rag.

            “Of them. I studied with their rivals, the Imperial Synod.” Callaina accepted Farkas’ hand up. “I’d hoped to scare him into a confession but these tattoos confirm it.”

            “The Butcher smelt like grave dirt and rotten flesh,” Farkas observed. “I just followed my nose.”

            Torbjorn nodded. “Thank you, Dragonborn. I had hope for justice but not by my own hand. Talos was working through you.”

            “You should thank Egil,” she told him. “He gave me the authority to investigate.”

            “Ulfric will make for a good High King but Egil will be a great one,” the old warrior said. “Tell your brother I will listen to his proposal about raising the pay for Argonian dockworkers.”

            “I’ve seen the Argonians do twice the work of the Nords for a third of the pay,” Farkas said. “Should be getting at least the same wage.”

            “I agree,” Callaina said. “An underpaid workforce is a prime recruitment source for the Empire.”

            Torbjorn looked troubled. “I owe you one, Dragonborn. And the legends say that the Septims can see the future. Very well, I will pay the boots the same as I do the Nords.”

            She met his eyes. “Talos brought people together, Torbjorn, not drove them apart.”

            He nodded and turned away.

            Callaina sighed. Egil had his work cut out for him. But it was none of her concern – now she had to go to Winterhold.


	15. Winterhold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism. I will likely run the rest of the Civil War storyline in a separate story called ‘The Winter War’ because it deserves a dedicated narrative.

 

The ferry set Callaina, Njada and Farkas at a small rickety dock in the gorge between the College and what was left of Winterhold. It took a full hour to climb up the switchback path, guided only by the beaten track of muddy snow and a few cairns draped with faded rags, and the wind howled the whole time. Even the Companions had added heavy fur cloaks – ice wolf for Njada and an entire snow bearskin for Farkas – to their fur-lined steel armour. In her calf-length skirts and fox-fur, Callaina would have been in a poor way if not for a few cold resistance potions. How in the name of the gods could _anyone_ live here voluntarily?

            “It makes sense that Korir’s such an icebrain,” Njada drawled once they reached the top. “A quick trip to the jakes would freeze more than your parts around here.”

            “And this is my mess to handle,” Callaina said with a sigh. _“Wonderful.”_

            Three guards in pale blue were patrolling unhappily around the single street while an Altmer woman with pigtails stood guard at the bridge across the gorge. Eyes followed the trio as they walked past the ruined buildings overgrown with snowberry bushes towards the intact buildings, four in number, that comprised Winterhold proper. Two Nords, a man and woman, argued in front of a two-storey shop while a Dunmer sat on the inn porch, listening idly while cleaning his nails with an iron knife.

            “This ain’t everyone,” Farkas rumbled. “There’s another group up the road at Whistling Mine.”

            Callaina muttered something under her breath. “A dragon or Legion squad could decimate this place in about a half-hour – if they stopped for a cup of tea along the way.”

            “And the town don’t talk to the College and vice versa,” Farkas agreed. “Looks like you’ve got your work cut out for you.”

            She sighed and rubbed her temples. “I’ll book a room at the inn first. Then I can try to figure out what to do next.”

            The Frozen Hearth was appropriately named, cold and drafty despite the fire-pit in the middle of the common room. Dagur the innkeeper, his wife Haran, daughter Eirid and resident drunk Ranmir made up the afternoon population; Nelacar, the ‘unaffiliated wizard’ who peddled his services, was in the sauna. Jarl Korir apparently sulked in the Winter Throne unless he needed to eat, in which event he came over and berated Dagur for renting a room to a mage. Thaena his wife was huscarl, the Dunmer on the porch was Malur Seloth the Steward, and Assur his son. Kraldar and Thonjolf lived in the last cottage before the College, the former a noble and the other a huscarl, and the only business in the village was run by Ranmir’s sister Birna. Any alchemical or enchanting services came from the College and only if the person went across the bridge. There wasn’t even a local cleric of any god, not even a Priest of Arkay to tend to the Hall of the Dead.

            Callaina learned all of this for the price of buying a bottle of mead for Ranmir as Farkas and Njada checked to see if there were any jobs available for the Companions with the Steward.

            ‘Clusterfuck’ didn’t begin to describe this mess.

            “Ranmir beg a drink off you yet?” Haran asked as she set a bowl of gruel sweetened with snowberries in front of Callaina.

            “Yeah,” she admitted.

            The innkeeper sighed. “You won’t see it back. He owes enough to burn this inn down and build it again twice over.”

            “I thought the Atmoran Nords were big about paying debts?” she asked, sticking her booted feet towards the fire in a vain attempt to warm them. “I could have a word with him.”

            “You’re welcome to try but don’t hold your breath,” Haran advised.

            Callaina picked up the bowl of gruel and approached Ranmir. “I hear you owe a debt,” she told the drunk.

            “I’ll pay Haran when I’m good and ready,” he whined. “Now go away unless you’re gonna buy me another mead.”

            “Throw good money after bad? I’ll pass, thanks.” Callaina snorted contemptuously.

            “You Imperials are all about the money, aren’t you?” Ranmir countered with a sneer.

            “One, I’m a Colovian Nord. And two, at least I pay my fucking debts,” she retorted. “And here everyone told me the worst of the Atmoran Nords had more honour than the Colovian ones.”

            Ranmir’s face went red and then white. Callaina got ready to smash him in the face with the bowl if he attacked her. Then he flushed again. “You’re right. What would my ancestors think of me if I didn’t pay my debts?”

            “So you’ll pay her?”

            “Yes.” He struggled to his feet. “I’ll chop firewood or something.”

            “Good man.” Callaina watched him stagger over to the pile of firewood, which was alarmingly small, and pick up a woodcutter’s axe before heading out.

            Haran’s jaw dropped. “Praise Kyne!”

            “She didn’t have much to do with it,” Callaina said dryly.

            The innkeeper’s wife sighed. “Ranmir’s not a bad man, just beaten down like most of us and bad with his coins. Look, I’ve got a couple things he gave us when he was still paying us regularly. I’d say you’ve earned them.”

            The things turned out to be an iron half-face helmet and battle-axe. “These look like heirlooms,” Callaina noted, examining the maker’s mark on the axe.

            “Ranmir and Birna’s grandfather was huscarl to Korir’s,” Haran said sadly. “I’ve hung onto them in case they ever scraped the coin together to buy them back but…”

            “Well, they’ll do me no good,” Callaina said. “I might as well give them back.”

            Outside, Farkas was fielding questions about being a Companion from two of the guards while Njada was talking to Malur about a job. Callaina nodded to the pair of them and marched over to Birna’s shop. If she could get on the good side of the local shopkeeper-

            Inside, the blonde frowning Birna was counting sacks of smoked horker meat. Callaina shuddered inwardly; she knew that the disgusting grey creatures provided a staple for the northern coastal communities. “Mistress Birna,” she said quietly. “I believe these belong to your family?”

            Birna dropped a slab of smoked horker on the floor. The dirt might improve the taste, though Callaina doubted it greatly. “Where did you find those?” she asked. “Ranmir said they were stolen!”

            “He traded them for drink to Haran, who held onto them so you could get them back one day,” Callaina explained, setting the items on the battered wooden counter. The shop was musty and dusty, its shelves distressingly empty. “I talked him into paying his debts properly and Haran gave them to me, but since they do me no good…”

            Instead of looking pissed, Birna simply looked sad. “He lost Isabella and the drink took him bad,” she said. “Thank you.”

            “You’re welcome.” Callaina rubbed the back of her neck. “How’s business up here?”

            “None unless one of the College mages wants something,” Birna said, picking up the horker. “I assume you’re here for them. No one wants to deal with the village otherwise.”

            “I have business with both the Jarl and the Arch-Mage,” Callaina told her. “How do I get audiences with them?”

            Birna arched an eyebrow. “Jarl Korir’s easy enough. Just walk in. The College has tightened its entry procedures since they started digging in Saarthal, so you might need to become a student.”

            “Mages in a dead city full of draugr and likely revenants,” Callaina said dryly. “What could go wrong there?”

            The shopkeeper snorted. “They’re the reason we still exist. But when you deal with Jarl Korir, don’t tell him you’re looking to have dealings with the College. He’ll throw you out of the longhouse.”

            Callaina pulled out a piece of parchment with a certain seal on it. “Who’s the local Stormcloak militia commander? I should see him first.”

            Kai Wet-Pommel was a weathered blond who wore a simpler version of Galmar’s magnificent snow bear uniform. He puzzled through Sigdrifa’s letter twice, brow furrowed, and minutely examined Ulfric’s signature and postscript at the end. Callaina would be more insulted if she didn’t already know she wasn’t the Nordic ideal of what the Dragonborn was supposed to be.

            He thrust the parchment back at her. “There’s a dragon at Mount Anthor south of Saarthal. It’s been eating what little livestock we have. It needs to die now.”

            “Sure,” she agreed, tucking the letter back into her beltpouch. “I’ll go get Farkas and Njada.”

            His eyebrow rose. “The mighty Dragonborn needs the help of the Companions?”

            “The ‘mighty Dragonborn’ was the tax assessor for Helgen about three weeks ago,” she said dryly. “I have a knack for magic but it always helps to have allies on hand.”

            Kai grunted. “I suppose so. I’d send men with you but… well… I have twelve for the entire Hold.”

            Callaina closed her eyes. “Sweet Kynareth, the Legion could take this Hold without breaking a sweat.”

            “Yes. We have more bandits than guards.” Kai sighed and shook his head. “Go and kill this dragon. Then we can talk more.”

            She nodded with another inward sigh. “On it. I need several lengths of rope and a few prayers.”

…

The dragon at Mount Anthor was a bronzy-coloured one like Mirmulnir. He ignored Korli’s Shout that she said was an offer of peace, swooping down and saying he was going to deliver her corpse to Alduin.

            What he got was Njada’s shield to the snout and a bunch of ropes knotted into a net tossed over his wings by Korli’s Telekinesis magic.

            “I don’t have any particular fight with the average dragon,” the Dragonborn told him tartly as he struggled against the net. Horker-gut rope was tough. “It’s Alduin who needs his tail kicked. Tell me where he is and I won’t kill you.”

            “He is in Sovngarde feasting on the souls of the ones you love,” the dragon retorted. “I will tell you nothing, Dovahkiin!”

            “Fine.” Korli shrugged. “Farkas, if you please?”

            Skyforge Steel sheared through the creature’s skinny neck, decapitating him neatly. Farkas guessed that dragonkind had its idiots and this one was counted high amongst them. Korli closed her eyes as she absorbed his soul, leaving nothing but clean ivory bones and the metal from passing warriors in the cage of his chest.

            Njada looked ill. “Is it true?”

            “I’m not sure,” the Dragonborn sighed. “I never got to those legends with Esbern.”

            “The College might be able to tell you,” Farkas pointed out. “So what are we gonna do with this?”

            “Drag it into Winterhold. The College might want to study the bones.”

            They were near the ruins of Saarthal when they ran into a mage from the College with three apprentices in tow. “Ah, Companions of Jorrvaskr?” the mage, an old Nord, asked cheerfully.

            “Yes,” Njada answered curtly.

            “Always a pleasure to meet your order. I once had the honour of a discussion with Vilkas about the legend of Ysgramor’s Shield…” The mage coughed. “I am Master Tolfdir, teacher of Alteration at the College of Winterhold, and these are Apprentices Onmund and Brelyna and Journeyman J’zargo.”

            “I’m Farkas, that’s Njada Stone-arm and the other lady’s Korli the Dragonborn,” the giant rumbled. “Did you want to study some dragon bones?”

            Tolfdir’s eyes sparkled. “Not I personally. Colette and Phinis handle anatomy of exotic creatures. I might come in when we’re trying to figure out the composition of the bones-“

            “At least a third of its composition is metals of varying purity,” Korli interrupted crisply. “This dragon ate a lot of sellswords judging by the lousy quality of the pig-iron in its ribcage.”

            “She’s an Alteration specialist,” Farkas added helpfully.

            Korli flushed as Tolfdir’s eyebrows rose. “I was on the way to studying the Adept level at the Synod before I… transferred… to the Provincial Revenue Office.”

            The old mage nodded. “I see. I think the trip to Saarthal is called off for today – we need to get these bones to the College!”

            J’zargo sighed. “And here J’zargo was hoping to find a few small items of interest.”

            “There will be tomorrow, J’zargo.” Tolfdir’s eyes flared blue as the bones were lifted and gathered into a bundle. Korli watched, visibly impressed, and Farkas had to admit the old man knew what he was doing. Njada looked uneasy but said nothing. “Uh, Korli, are you here to study at the College?”

            “I’ll definitely want to consult the library,” she said quietly. “As for the rest, I need to see your Arch-Mage.”

            “I’ll pass the word along.” Tolfdir tied the bones into a bundle with the horker-gut rope magically. “I’d say if you were studying for Adept Alteration at the Synod, you’d definitely rank as a Journeyman.”

            “Maybe but I’m trying to stay neutral at the moment,” she said softly. “I need to be on Jarl Korir’s good side.”

            “Understood.” Tolfdir handed the rope to the Nord apprentice Onmund, smiling at the youth. “Remember to use Feather and Levitate on the bones as I taught you.”

            “Yes, Master Tolfdir.” The mage’s hands glowed and the bundle lifted awkwardly. When Tolfdir clenched his fists, the bundle dropped again.

            Brelyna sighed. “It’s going to be a long walk home…”

            “For that, you can help him carry it,” Tolfdir ordered. “Your Alteration needs some work.”

            “I can shapeshift!” the Dunmer girl protested.

            “Poorly. The best spell is the basic one honed to perfection,” the mage lectured. “Do you have anything to say, J’zargo?”

            “No. J’zargo has no wish to be a porter.” The catman’s ears were pressed tight.

            “Pity. You three need to learn how to work as a team.” Tolfdir turned to Korli yet again. “I’ll speak to Faralda at the gate to give you free access.”

            “Thank you.” Korli paused and asked, “Can I join your next trip to Saarthal? Ahzidal the Dragon-Priest hailed from there and no doubt the Dragon Cult flourished. I might find clues there.”

            “I see no reason why not.” Tolfdir smiled and lifted one hand, the dragon bones – and Onmund – floating in the air. “I’ll leave word at the inn. Talos guide you, Dragonborn and Companions.”

            They watched the mages leave before Njada glanced at Korli. “What in Oblivion was all that about? The dead of Saarthal shouldn’t be disturbed.”

            The Dragonborn regarded the shieldmaiden. “I have a gut feeling that whatever’s going to happen at Winterhold will start at Saarthal. Maybe if I’m there at the beginning, I can nip it in the bud.”

            Njada shrugged. “You’re the mage. Farkas and I will have to head back to Whiterun.”

            “I know. And thank you for your help.”

            The shieldmaiden nodded. “We killed a dragon together. And since Galmar’s Ulfric’s foster kin, we’re related. You need me, send a message.”

            “I will, thank you.” Korli smiled briefly at the girl before turning to Farkas. “And thank you too, Farkas.”

            He smiled down at her. “It was nothing.”

            She stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “It was everything, Farkas. I wouldn’t be here if not for you.”

            A quick glance at Njada got the grinning shieldmaiden walking towards Winterhold. She’d gossip enough as is.

            Farkas leaned forward and hooked a finger in the clasp of Korli’s fox-fur cloak, pulling her closer. In the afternoon light, she was a warm ruddy figure, her black hair tousled from the wind off the sea and her turquoise eyes wide. She fitted nicely into his arms and he noticed she didn’t fight.

            “I’d stay if I could but I gotta get back to Jorrvaskr for a bit,” he growled unhappily. “Don’t like being away from you.”

            “I don’t like being without you at my back either,” she admitted with a sigh. “But I think you’d better avoid the College. If they learn you’re a werewolf-“

            Farkas put a finger on her lips. “Gonna look for a cure. If Alduin’s in Sovngarde, I’ll need to be able to go with you to help you, and that can’t happen as a werewolf.”

            “If you die to help me in Sovngarde, staying a werewolf might be the better option!” she snapped. “Farkas, I don’t give a damn you’re a werewolf.”

            “I know. But _I_ do.” He nuzzled the top of her head. “I don’t wanna act like an animal around you, Korli. Werewolves mate for life and I wanna _choose_ to be with you, not because my instincts tell me to.”

            “’Choose or have it chosen for you’,” she murmured, quoting someone. “I understand, Farkas.”

            “Thanks.” He kissed her forehead, nose and mouth gently. “Now you go save the world and I’ll go save the Companions.”

            They held each other for a little bit before he released her. It was going to be a long cold trip back to Whiterun.


	16. Siblings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism. The Companions and Dark Brotherhood will also get their own story because I have some intertwined plotlines planned.

 

“Well, well, well.”

            A voice of honeyed nightshade seeped through Irkand’s haze. He clutched his aching head, wondering why the building smelt like bog. Had Delphine’s inn sprung a leak?

            “Easy there,” the female soothed. “You’re warm, safe and quite intact. Not like poor sweet Vittoria Vici.”

            Consciousness rushed in like a crashing wave. “The Dark Brotherhood.”

            “The one and the same.” The blur resolved into the lithe form of a Nord woman, golden-blonde hair braided back from a beautiful face. “Don’t worry, I’m not holding a grudge. On the contrary, Irkand Aurelius, the Executioner of the Blades, I’m rather impressed.”

            Irkand managed a bow. “One does always appreciate an admiring audience.”

            “If you were trying to get our attention, you certainly went the right way about it.” The Dark Sister chuckled richly. “However, you have put us in an awkward situation.”

            “I’ve, ah, ruined your plans?”

            “Not… exactly. The Imperials are convinced half of Ulfric’s soldiers are beasts and this will only increase their terror.” At Irkand’s arched eyebrow, she chuckled again. “What, an assassin can’t be a patriot?”

            “You know very well I was both once,” he countered. “I suppose this is the part where you inform me I owe you a death.”

            “You are well informed.” The assassin pursed her lips. “But yes. You owe Sithis a death. The Dread Father doesn’t particularly care if it’s yours – or another’s.”

            “Name, place, method,” Irkand immediately said. “I was… uneasy about this, truth be told, but it did feed into particular plans of my order’s.”

            “Please, your order’s a Breton with delusions of leadership and a crazy old man cowering in the sewers of Riften,” she said dryly. “As for the Companions, only Skjor truly likes you and Aela accepts you for his sake. Kodlak would leash you and the so-called Hero-Twins would cheerfully gut you.”

            “I have a feeling you intend to recruit me.”

            “Master of the obvious he is,” growled a rough Nord voice from just outside Irkand’s field of vision. “You can tell Skjor was his progenitor.”

            “And Kodlak was yours,” Irkand told Arnbjorn over his shoulder. “Look how you turned out.”

            The white-haired werewolf chuckled gravelly. “Kodlak still trying to find a cure?”

            “Sadly. Of course, Vilkas is following him and because he lacks intelligence, Farkas will agree.” Irkand sighed and shook his head. “Skjor is my friend and Aela his mate.”

            “Of course. We don’t want a brawl with the heroes of Jorrvaskr.” The female assassin’s tone was soothing. “Nor even with Delphine despite her _rudely_ stealing a message from us.”

            “Actually, she’d be a hell of an asset,” Arnbjorn growled. “But yeah, we’re trying to recruit you. Mind you, if you pay up the death we’re owed, we’ll let you go if you’re not in the mood to be honest with yourself.”

            “I’m happy to pay the debt with one exception,” Irkand told them. “Aurelia Callaina cannot die. She is the Dragonborn.”

            “Just because we serve death doesn’t mean we want the world to die,” the female assured him. “She’s fine – for now. Once Alduin’s gone…”

            “Name, place, method,” Irkand repeated mildly.

            She told him and even Irkand blanched. “I thought you were a patriot.”

            “I am. He’s deadweight now.” She examined her fingernails elegantly. “If you’d rather take your chances with trying to fight Arnbjorn _and_ myself…”

            Irkand shook his head. “No. If you don’t mind me working with the Blades, this will even further our plans. I was just, ah, startled.”

            She smiled sweetly. “Irkand, stay with us and you’ll have revenge on the man who betrayed your entire clan. If Delphine can give you _that_ , I’d be very much surprised.”

            “She can’t, but I have made oaths.” Irkand regarded her pointedly. “I wouldn’t be the sort of person you’d want to recruit if I broke promises.”

            “I wasn’t saying that you can’t be a Blade too,” she pointed out. “Do this job and we’re even. But think about your life choices on the way.”

            She reached out and offered her hand to Irkand. “I’m Astrid. When the job is done, I’ll contact you again.”

            He shook it. “I’m sure I’ll hear from you soon.”

…

Farkas and Njada returned to Jorrvaskr to find the Companions in an uproar.

            “Underforge tonight,” Skjor muttered in his ear as he roughly embraced him. “We have a situation.”

            Ria was nearly as red as a Legionnaire’s cloak with rage. “Are we going to do something about it? A woman was butchered at her own wedding!”

            “Unless we are approached by the family, we can do nothing,” Kodlak told her with a sigh.

            “A werewolf killed my cousin!”

            “Yes. It was likely the Dark Brotherhood – rumour has a werewolf amongst their ranks in recent years,” Skjor said grimly. “Which means the killing was likely political, Ria. And you know we don’t meddle in politics.”

            Farkas nearly snarled. Arnbjorn. The only member of their pack to go renegade. Even _Irkand_ was a better person, though not by much.

            Vilkas caught his eye. “How’d the trip to Winterhold go?”

            “We caught up with Korli in Windhelm, found a magical phial for an alchemist, tracked down the Butcher of Windhelm, got Korli to Winterhold and then killed a dragon at Mount Anthor,” Farkas reported.

            “Heh, and all I got was two sabre cats and a giant,” Vilkas sighed. “How’s the situation in Windhelm?”

            “How do you think? Full of rebels and traitors,” Ria said sourly.

            “Those ‘rebels and traitors’ are my family,” Njada retorted.

            “And the people they’re rebelling against include _my_ family,” the Imperial pointed out. “Ulfric Stormcloak probably hired the Dark Brotherhood to kill my cousin Vittoria.”

            “That’s a crock of dragon shit,” Njada said scornfully. “A real Nord would win their victory by force of arms, not by an assassin’s blade.”

            “Skyrim can’t stand alone against the Thalmor!” Ria said in frustration. “Njada, your family’s being selfish.”

            “And Titus Mede wasn’t when he signed the White-Gold Concordat to preserve his throne?”

            _“ENOUGH!”_ Kodlak’s roar was still strong despite his ailing body. The whelps shut up and looked everywhere but the Harbinger. Farkas wondered how Ria would feel to find out the Dragonborn was now more or less aligned with the Stormcloaks because they were her family.

            The old man looked at Farkas. “I’ve been hearing some rumours concerning Korli from Windhelm. Are they true?”

            “The ones about her drawing the Sword of the Septims? Yes,” Njada said triumphantly. “I saw it myself.”

            “She ain’t going for the Ruby Throne. Can’t because Titus Mede made her swear on the brass dragon statue of Martin Septim not to or raise arms against the Empire,” Farkas said quietly.

            Ria looked ill. “You mean to tell me Arius Aurelius was telling the truth about his ancestry?”

            “Yep.” Njada was relishing this too much for Farkas’ comfort.

            “Stone-arm.” Kodlak’s tone was reproving. “You should never take pleasure in a Shield-Sister’s suffering.”

            “I’m sorry about your cousin,” Njada told Ria gracelessly. “No one, not even an Imperial, deserves to be torn apart by a werewolf.”

            “She was marrying a Stormcloak noble, you know that?” Ria replied flatly. “Asgeir Snow-Shod.”

            The Imperial hugged herself. “Skyrim can’t afford to stand alone. Half the Legions are Nords. You get at least a third of your food from the south.”

            “The only reason half the Legions are Nords is because we can’t pay the taxes you levy any other way,” Njada pointed out. “Titus Mede signed away the Nords’ right to worship their own gods.”

            “Cyrodiil lost three out of five civilians and half its Legions during the Great War,” Ria countered. “If Skyrim had been so devastated, your precious Ulfric would have signed _anything_ that would have allowed them to rebuild.”

            “Skyrim lost two out of five warriors, not counting the losses we’ve incurred since the Thalmor started persecuting Talos worshippers,” Njada said bitterly. “If the Stormcloaks lose, Ria, Titus Mede will kill me and my foster cousins. He won’t respect sanctuary or youth. Korli Dragonborn herself told me that.”

            “Titus Mede won’t be the Emperor forever. He’s already in his eighties.” Ria’s expression was bleak.

            “We can’t wait that long.” Njada stared at Ria. “I’m not saying Cyrodiil didn’t suffer. I’ve got a fair idea of what happened from Korli Dragonborn. But Cyrodiil can’t throw the rest of humanity into the pit to preserve itself.”

            “If Cyrodiil falls, the Dominion will be at your doorstep,” Ria said.

            “So take your Legions home and reinforce the southern border.” Njada lifted her chin. “Legate Rikke and Jarl Balgruuf wanted to push Korli into becoming an Empress so that Skyrim would stay in the Empire. Let me tell you something: even if she sat on the Ruby Throne, the rebellion wouldn’t stop. It’s the Mede Empire, not the Septim one, and Titus Mede lost our loyalty when he denied our god and impoverished our people to keep himself in power.”

            “Not every Nord is a Stormcloak,” Aela reminded the shieldmaiden quietly.

            “True. There are those who remain out of misguided loyalty or the love of Imperial coin or because they’re Thalmor toadies.” Njada shrugged. “I don’t hate them. I don’t even hate you, Ria. If more Imperials were like you, maybe we’d be still part of the Empire. But can you look me in the eyes and tell me that if the Legion wins, Skyrim wouldn’t be stripped of its resources and children for the Empire?”

            “The Elder Council would argue it’s for the good of all,” Ria finally said. “But it’s likely that at least one child from each noble family would be fostered in Cyrodiil.”

            “And look what happened. We got Torygg, Elisif and Siddgeir,” Njada countered.

            “Elisif’s actually the daughter of the Count of Evermore,” Ria noted. Then her eyes narrowed. “If Ulfric wins, you get stuck with a xenophobic bigot who’s let his city be run into the ground.”

            “Ulfric won’t be High King forever,” Njada responded.

            Farkas sighed. It was nearly dusk. “Enough,” he said wearily. “You’re both Shield-Sisters. The war will go as the war will but in this hall, we are dedicated to honour and the good of Skyrim’s people. If the Stormcloaks win, Ria, you can stay here or we’ll escort you to the border as you prefer. If the Legion wins, they’re gonna have to go through us to get to Njada. Until then, we support each other. Understand?”

            Both young women muttered something that might be agreement.

            “Aela, take Njada and Ria out on your next hunt,” Kodlak ordered softly. “I don’t think they’ve fought alongside each other enough.”

            “Of course, old man.” Aela nodded to the Harbinger.

            “Good. Circle, we might as well have that meeting now.” Kodlak struggled to his feet. “Has anyone seen Irkand around in the past few days? I haven’t.”

            “Only because you’re getting blind,” the Redguard, who’d been in the shadows, observed blandly. “Thank you for letting me get caught up on recent events.”

            Farkas felt his hackles rise. “Where have you been?”

            “On business,” Irkand responded coolly. “I told you that with the return of the dragons, my oath as a Blade was paramount.”

            “Funny, because I didn’t see you killing dragons with us and Korli,” Njada shot back.

            “My niece has made her opinion of my company known.” Irkand shrugged. “There are other ways to protect the Dragonborn.”

            He turned for the doors. “Come, let us discuss whatever business Kodlak wants us to.”

            Farkas inhaled deeply. For a moment, he’d swear he’d smelt nightshade.


	17. The College of Winterhold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. I have a feeling that the Companions, Dark Brotherhood and Civil War storylines are going to be in the one story that runs alongside this one… I use the Magical College of Winterhold mod; it is awesome and I recommend it.

 

“I saw Tolfdir dragging the dragon carcass to the College,” Kai Wet-Pommel observed. “Why did you give it to him?”

            “Because the College is better suited for research than anywhere else in Skyrim,” Callaina told the Stormcloak commander. “Besides, as impressive as a dragon’s skull looks on the mantelpiece, you start to run out of room after two or three. The mages will get better use out of the bones than I will at the moment.”

            He chuckled gruffly. “You’re the Dragonborn. Still, it would have helped to have the head at least. Jarl Korir’s going to be, ah, not impressed you’ve given the corpse to the College.”

            Callaina sighed. “I have to work with the College. They’ve got the oldest collection of books outside of elven lands and the ruins of Saarthal date from Dragon Cult times. Ahzidal, one of the Dragon Priests, actually came from there.”

            Kai shrugged. “I’m just warning you.”

            His warning was correct. Korir, an auburn-haired Nord in slightly faded robes and a plain copper crown, was inclined to throw her out of the longhouse until Malur dourly pointed out that the Dragonborn stepdaughter of Ulfric Stormcloak wasn’t someone you could just toss out on her arse. The petty kinglet, as provincial a noble as any she’d encountered in the backwoods of High Rock, Cyrodiil and even Morrowind, told her that he’d receive her when she brought back a proper gift. Like the missing Helm of Winterhold, which belonged to Hanse, the last Jarl and future High King of Skyrim just before the Great Collapse.

            “Kynareth save me from backwater nobles,” she muttered on leaving the longhouse. At least Haran and Dagur were happy to let her stay at the Frozen Hearth for free, so long as she paid for meat and mead.

            The next day, Faralda the College Gate Guard came to the inn. The Altmer was youngish for her kind, probably the mer equivalent of Callaina’s thirty-three, and paid Haran for a bottle of ale. “Tolfdir will be heading out to Saarthal around noon,” she told the Dragonborn. “Might I ask a question?”

            “You can ask. I don’t have to answer,” Callaina answered serenely. Sigdrifa warned her that the Thalmor had an ‘advisor’ at the College. The Stormsword wanted them removed.

            “I suppose not. You’re Dragonborn, are you not?” Faralda’s saffron eyes were curious.

            “I am.” Callaina ate some gruel. Haran was a decent cook.

            “Would you be willing to give me a demonstration of the Thu’um? According to Urag, it’s the oldest form of Destruction magic on Nirn.” Faralda sipped from the bottle. “I teach Destruction, so I have a professional interest.”

            Callaina chuckled wryly. “The best way to describe a battle between dragons is them screaming ‘fuck you’ at each other with various destructive effects. There are other Shouts as well – I know one that allows me to move with the speed of the wind and another that I’d prefer to keep to myself.”

            Faralda giggle-snorted. “You’ve certainly taken the majesty out of a draconic battle.”

            “Honestly, the only difference between a sky full of dragons and a hall full of warriors is that one has wings and the other belches after too much mead,” Callaina told her. “I can demonstrate Whirlwind Sprint for you but that’s the best you’ll get.”

            “I understand.” Faralda’s gaze dropped pointedly at the broken sword sheathed at her belt. “Ancano’s going to love you.”

            “Let me guess, he’s the Thalmor, ah, advisor I’ve heard about.”

            “Yes. And he’s a fanatic of the worst kind.” The womer’s expression was frank. “The only reason most of the Altmer faculty haven’t frozen him solid is because we still have family at home. If word got out…”

            “I can appreciate that,” she said softly. “My issue is with the blackcoats, not the average Altmer.”

            “Thank you.” Faralda finished her drink. “If you want to do that demonstration now, I can give you a tour of the College after. Savos Aren’s commanded you’re to receive full access to everything except the Hall of Countenance and the Arch-Mage’s quarters.”

            Callaina wolfed down her porridge. “It will be my pleasure.”

            The Destruction teacher was delighted to see Callaina gliding up and down the street with the utterance of a single word. Assur and Eirid were giggling and tossing snowballs that she had to dodge while using Whirlwind Sprint. Even Korir watched from the doorway. It was the first moment of _fun_ she’d had in a long time.

            Maybe being Dragonborn wasn’t entirely lousy.

            When it was over, Callaina flipped back her tangled black hair, laughing. “Alright, I’m ready for that tour.”

            The bridge twisted through the wind that howled almost constantly. Faralda’s steps were sure though and Callaina herself able to block some of the wind with an Oakflesh spell. “Mirabelle Ervine handles most of the administrative duties,” she was explaining as she lit up beacons with Magelight. “Savos Aren is more of a final authority on the few matters the College decides upon. For the most part, study is self-directed with a few lectures every week.”

            “So it’s more like Arcane University than the Synodic branch training?” Callaina asked curiously.

            “Very much so. Aside from Onmund, most of our students come from elsewhere – Brelyna is from House Telvanni and chose to pursue her higher magical education here while J’zargo came to us a full Journeyman of the Synod. The only one who needed intense magical training was Onmund. Other than Tolfdir, our human faculty is Imperial and Breton.” Faralda sighed. “We had Falion of the Redguards, but he chose to pursue his studies… somewhere else.”

            “I was studying for Adept Alteration before my training was, ah, cancelled,” Callaina admitted. “The survivors of the northern Colovian clans weren’t allowed to… become too competent, just in case we forgot our place.”

            “I remember some of that,” Faralda agreed. “Of all the people they chose as a would-be Emperor, they chose Arius Aurelius?”

            “My grandfather had his… issues,” Callaina agreed.

            “I was thinking more along the lines of the man who failed to reach Journeyman in the Synod,” Faralda said tartly. “Your grandfather was a rather mediocre individual. Not like Julius Martin. I studied under him before he returned to the Blades.”

            Julius Martin, son of the Hero of Kvatch, was little more than a myth to Callaina. “He was that good a mage?”

            “Your great-grandfather had a grasp of Restoration and Alteration that was profound for a human,” Faralda said quietly. “That was why he lived so long.”

            “He only looked about forty when the Thalmor killed him, Esbern told me,” Callaina sighed.

            “Yes,” Faralda observed sadly. “Esbern was your mentor?”

            “First magical tutor,” she confirmed. “He was a master of the old dragon lore.”

            “He taught here until about fifteen years ago, when Ancano arrived,” Faralda told her. “Farengar Secret-Fire was one of his pupils.”

            “That sideburned bastard never told me that,” Callaina muttered.

            “Discretion, no doubt. Balgruuf is trying to play both sides and the wrong word could be disastrous.” They reached the gates of the courtyard, which was dominated by a statue of Galerion the Mystic. Despite the cold, exotic mushrooms grew beneath a fir tree and mountain flowers of all colours were scattered amongst the snowberry bushes. A small Breton woman with the precise accent of a High Rock noblewoman was arguing with an Altmer male in Thalmor robes.

            They edged around the courtyard until they reached the gate. “Beyond is the Hall of Elements where Tolfdir gives the basic lessons,” Faralda explained. “Beyond being a Master Alterator, he’s skilled to between Apprentice and Adept in all other Schools, so we have him assess those of Journeyman rank and below.”

            “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you were trying to sell the College to me,” Callaina noted wryly.

            “I won’t lie. Having the Dragonborn – and Ulfric’s stepdaughter – as a student would be a boon,” Faralda admitted. “The College doesn’t have the luxury of enshrined neutrality that the Companions do and none of us have any love for the Imperial politics of magic. But most of us are mer – and the Nords have little sympathy for elves, even refugees.”

            “I understand your point,” Callaina said with a sigh. “The Stormcloak commanders, my mother Sigdrifa in particular, want the College and Winterhold to have a working relationship. So that entails a certain appearance of neutrality on my part.”

            “The Stormsword has always appreciated a good battlemage,” the Breton woman agreed from behind them. The Thalmor – Ancano – was nowhere to be seen. “She’s a practitioner herself, correct?”

            “Mostly Lightning Cloak, if I recall correctly,” Callaina said. “Maybe a bit of healing.”

            “For a Stormcloak commander, that is nothing short of a miracle,” the Breton drawled. “I am Mirabelle Ervine, Master Wizard of the College. Will you be guesting with us or in Winterhold?”

            “In Winterhold,” Callaina told her somewhat reluctantly. “You’re from High Rock. You understand politics.”

            “I do indeed,” Mirabelle observed. “Few non-faculty are given the level of access that you have been, Aurelia Callaina. I trust you’ll appreciate it.”

            “I will,” she said with a smile. “I haven’t had a decent read in months and I hear the Ysmir Collective is… extraordinary.”

            “It is. I won’t claim that we have the level of knowledge concerning dragons and the Thu’um that the Blades or Greybeards do but our records on other primitive forms of Nord magic are extensive.” Mirabelle smiled a little. “Perhaps when you see the student quarters, you’ll decide to enrol.”

            “I’ve served in Blackmarsh,” Callaina said wryly. “It will take more than a soft bed to seduce me.”

            The Hall of Attainment was where the mages of Apprentice through to Journeyman rank – with a couple Evokers considered too rowdy for the Hall of Countenance – lived and Callaina had to admit the rooms were the equal of minor nobles’ quarters elsewhere in Skyrim. The Hall of the Elements was no different in size or scope to the lecture hall at Arcane University, except it was far more austere, but the Arcaneum…

            Mirabelle chuckled and left her at the library as an Orc lowered his half-glasses and eyed Callaina warily. “You’re not going to Shout in here, are you?” he demanded.

            “No, sir,” she said with a reverence that made him chuckle.

            “I’m Urag gro-Shub,” he told her. “And you are the last hope for mankind against the dragons.”

            “That’s what Akatosh decided. I’m still convinced he hit Sanguine’s skooma stash.”

            “I don’t know. A scholarly Dragonborn is a godsend. We don’t need another Talos.” Urag pushed his glasses back up his nose. “Come in here any time, Dragonborn. I’ll want to see if you can translate some of my Dragonish texts.”

            “Dovahzul,” she corrected automatically. “The language is called Dovahzul.”

            “See? You can already teach us something new.” Urag grinned toothily, showing a broken fang. “Go on the Saarthal tour. Tolfdir’s practically Levitating at the thought of having the Dragonborn in his class.”

            Callaina’s good mood was almost instantly dashed. Whatever was going to go wrong here came from Saarthal. She just knew it. Gods willing, she could nip it in the bud before it threatened the world.


	18. Saarthal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and desecration of a corpse. I head-canon Tolfdir as knowing a lot about the magical history of Skyrim, so the Galdur legend would be familiar to him.

 

Today Callaina wore furs not unlike bandit armour as a tomb and skirts never mixed. The mage robes of Skyrim tended towards long tunics and breeches instead of what the Synod considered appropriate garb; there was something to be said about practicality. But she was uncomfortable being known as a mage. Tact, neutrality and all that.

            Saarthal was an hour away and Tolfdir’s magic carved a path through the snow dumped by last night’s blizzard by dint of transmuting it to water which soaked into the ground. While magical theory was examined at the College, the faculty tended towards practical solutions. Callaina remembered an argument between two Synod researchers and shuddered; it had been the old one about Aedric spirits and the head of a pin.

            “We shouldn’t be bothering the dead,” Onmund said uneasily. “They don’t rest easily.”

            “Draugr are pretty easy to kill if you’re calm,” Callaina told him over her shoulder. “Most fight with the Nine Basic Blocks and Blows but a few have ice magic and some can Shout – mostly Unrelenting Force and a Shout that can rip your weapon out of your hand. Firebolt works well and keep a weapon in your other hand in case they close in.”

            The young Nord brightened. Born in the Pale, he’d defied a family of horker hunters to come to the College. “I guess you’ve faced a few in your time, Dragonborn.”

            “I had Companions with me both times but yes,” she confirmed. “I learned two of the four Words I know in Dragon Cult tombs.”

            “Don’t worry. J’zargo’s an arse but he’s a decent Destruction mage. Brelyna can hold her own too. I can summon a Flame Atronach.” Onmund smiled awkwardly. “It’s good to meet another Nord who studies magic. My family wasn’t happy about me coming here.”

            She nodded. “I think acceptance of magic depends on where you come from. My maternal grandmother and first magical tutor were Reachers, so they were comfortable with it, and even my mother sees it as useful. It’s mostly the Palers and Winterholders who have trouble with magic.”

            “Most of the great mages of Skyrim came from the Reach,” Onmund observed wistfully. “My family’s mostly known for hunting horkers and burping the Hymn of Talos in front of Jarl Ulfric’s father that one time.”

            “Given that the Hymn of Talos is meant to be an orchestral piece, that’s rather impressive,” Callaina said dryly.

            “It was a group effort, I’m told.” Onmund shrugged sheepishly.

            “Born skalds, the lot of them,” she pointed out. “My prominent ancestors have pretty much landed us in the mess we’re currently in. Oh, and probably provoked the Great War, depending on how you interpret the Thalmor’s first move.”

            “Suddenly a burping choir of horker-hunters doesn’t sound so bad,” Onmund muttered.

            “There are days when I’d honestly trade you.”

            “I know those feelings,” Brelyna agreed. “Back home it’s ‘you’re the hope of the Telvanni’! Here, the worst I have to deal with is being called a greyskin.”

            “I had to collect a Telvanni’s tax once,” Callaina told the young womer. “He tried to pay me in soul gems. I might have accepted it but most of them were petty souls trapped in greater or grand gems…”

            “Ugh, Lyndril.” Brelyna sounded disgusted. “What did he do when you refused?”

            “Sent the Morag Tong after me. I wound up being transferred to the outer edges of Blackmarsh.”

            “Even worse.” The Dunmer wrinkled her nose. “If it wasn’t for the Argonians, Brandlyn would be heir and not me.”

            They crested the hill to look down at the ruins of Saarthal. Tolfdir and J’zargo were already halfway down the steps. “Last one there has to buy the mead!” Callaina grinned before using Whirlwind Sprint to slide down the slope.

            Onmund had to buy the mead. “That’s cheating,” he complained.

            “Learn Haste,” Brelyna countered.

            “J’zargo wishes to learn the spell you used,” the Khajiit told Callaina.

            “J’zargo would have to be the Dragonborn,” she said dryly.

            He sighed and Tolfdir chuckled.

            “Alright. Arniel Gane is already inside. Hopefully he will have laid the draugr to rest.” The old mage folded his hands primly. “J’zargo, I want you with Arniel to locate small enchanted objects. I trust you won’t pocket any – who knows what ancient curses you could unleash? Onmund, Brelyna, you’ll be examining inscriptions in the main chamber.”

            “What am I doing?” Callaina asked.

            “You and I will be looking for evidence of the Dragon Cult,” he replied. “You instinctively read Dovahzul and I know Merethic Era Nord magic.”

            She nodded. Gods willing they would stop whatever threatened the world here, keep this eye shut. “Understood. Let’s go.”

…

“Hold, Dragonborn. Know that judgment has not been yet passed as you had no idea of what you have unleashed.”

             The Altmer was lean and handsome, his green-gold eyes solemn. The Altmer equivalent of a Greybeard folded his arms and regarded her sternly. “But judgment will be passed on what happens from here. The Psijic Order is watching you.”

            The world’s colour returned and Tolfdir blinked. “What in Talos was that?” he demanded.

            “I just received a message from the Psijic Order,” Callaina said with a sigh. “That seal we broke has apparently unleashed something very, _very_ nasty.”

            Great, just exploring that unleashed… whatever. Callaina decided that when she met the Arch-Mage, she was going to tell him what Kodlak told her. Maybe it would help avert the disaster.

            “Hmm. It’s said that one of the sons of Galdur was buried in Saarthal,” Tolfdir observed. Very evil bunch they were. Killed their own father and were damned for it.”

            “So some kind of king-draugr. I can’t see the Psijic Order being worried about that though.”

            “Me neither. I can see them approaching you as Dragonborn but…” Tolfdir shrugged. “We might as well follow the path, Korlaina. We’ve already unlocked the Box of Woes.”

            Dozens of draugr had been buried here. “So what was with the Dragon Cult’s obsession with embalming anyway?” she asked after a nasty fight with one.

            “The Dragon Priests ruled as god-kings over Atmoran humanity between the time of the green summers and the rebellion of the Tongues,” Tolfdir explained, examining a bit of stonework. “When they died, they were buried with dozens of worshippers designed to feed them life energy to achieve a form of… I’m not sure.”

            “Lichdom,” Callaina said grimly. “Sentient draugr. They’re called liches in High Rock and Cyrodiil.”

            “That sounds about right.” Tolfdir shuddered a little. “Necromancy and its subtleties aren’t my specialty. That’s Phinis Gestor’s, though he’s more prone to conjuring dremora than draugr. Now _Falion_ … He was extraordinary. Found a cure for vampirism, albeit a highly questionable one that involved a filled black soul gem.”

            “Lovely,” Callaina said dryly.

            “We do practice limited battlefield necromancy,” Tolfdir admitted. “And we study anatomy. But there’s a reason why so many covens of witches and necromancers exist in Skyrim – because we have strict standards on when Conjuration is permissible. Mostly within the College grounds or during a battle. No black soul gems. No permanent undead thralls. That sort of thing.”

            “Wuunferth told me something similar when we were tracking the Butcher of Windhelm,” Callaina said. “ _He_ turned out to be a member of the College of Whispers trying to resurrect his dead sister using body parts.”

            “How charming.” Tolfdir held up his hand. “Do you feel that?”

            Callaina stopped moving. “Some kind of… tingling?”

            “Yes. We’re in the presence of a potent magical artefact. Brace yourself.”

            They were also in the presence of a potent king-draugr that required a magical staff to take down after Tolfdir weakened its connection to the artefact. A gigantic sphere inscribed with every magical symbol she knew and a great many more she didn’t hovered above the ground, buzzing with energy.

            “I think this is what the Psijic Order was warning us about,” Callaina said grimly.

            “Why ever for? It’s beautiful.” Tolfdir stared at the artefact like most men did a lover.

            “So are Valenwood orchid cobras. I still wouldn’t touch one.”

            “We better get the senior faculty here,” Tolfdir said, ignoring her dry comment. “Extracting this is going to be difficult.”

            Callaina shuddered. Yes, this was going to be the thing that threatened the world even faster than Alduin. And the College was going to drag it into the light. What could possibly go wrong?

…

“I demand to know what was found in Saarthal!”

            “Demand as you please,” Callaina said bluntly, eyeing Ancano. “You have no authority here. I don’t recognise the Thalmor’s authority in any case. And if you decide to push me, I may just decide to give you a taste of the Thu’um, blackcoat.”

            Magicka swirled around Ancano’s lean body, only manifesting as a slight crackle of lightning between his fingers. “I’m here to offer the _eons_ of magical experience that the Altmer have to the College,” he said haughtily. “The war is over.”

            “The Thalmor want to end the world,” Callaina told him flatly. “You want to return everything to raw magicka.”

            The emissary looked briefly surprised before his eyes narrowed. “Alduin is meant to end the world, is he not?”

            “Actually, he’s going to eat it and shit it out in a new form. The Akaviri theorised that the reborn souls would return as immortal, infinite, invulnerable dragons.” She smiled thinly. “Locked to the flesh – forever.”

            Ancano actually shuddered. “The Thalmor’s goals aren’t as horrible as you think, Aurelia Callaina. We want to free _all_ creatures from the prison of this world and return them to primordial divinity.”

            “Yes, through conquest, torture and genocide.”

            “Every faction has its cruel fanatics. Elenwen and her family…” He shuddered. “Our goals won’t be achieved until long after you’re gone and I, for one, would rather a peaceful path.”

            “You know I will fight to the end in order to stop you.”

            “That’s your choice, Dragonborn. You’re not like your forefather, praise Auri-El, so there’s not a lot you can do.” Ancano dipped his head. “Good luck with the dragons. And I do mean that.”

            The Thalmor took himself off to the Hall of the Elements and Callaina sighed gustily. The battlelines had been drawn between her and the blackcoat. Something to be said for an open enemy at least.

            Savos Aren was in his quarters, a mage’s paradise complete with herb garden, alchemy table and enchanter’s workshop. “You’re not one of the apprentices-“

            “I’m not. But we’ve found something in Saarthal that’s going to cause a lot of trouble,” Callaina said, offering her hand. “I’m Aurelia Callaina.”

            “The Dragonborn, according to rumour.” Savos shook her hand cordially. “What did you find?”

            She told him. And then mentioned that Kodlak had foreseen danger from an eye and a labyrinth. The Dunmer’s face flickered at the mention of the latter and she wondered what he knew.

            When her explanation was over, the Dunmer looked blindly at the far wall of his sanctum. “The Psijic Order bestirs itself for the first time in over a century. Once, we had an advisor here, when I was an apprentice. I was born here, you know, in Winterhold.”

            “The Stormcloaks are interested in a peaceful coexistence with the College,” she said quietly.

            “I know. Ulfric is many things but not an idiot. It’s Korir who’s the problem. Kraldar, on the other hand, is more than willing to talk.”

            _That would be the Imperial pick for Jarl,_ she mused. Aloud, she said, “Side with the Empire and you’ll get dragged into their mage politics. I trained with the Synod and helped deal with a member of the College of Whispers in Winterhold. That’s a clusterfuck your College doesn’t need.”

            “I miss the Mages’ Guild,” Savos said mournfully.

            “I never knew them, so I can’t say, and Synodic politics stopped my advance there. Necromancy’s not my cup of tea, so there goes the College of Whispers.”

            “Unsavoury lot there.” Savos shook his head. “We’re not on the Empire’s side and Ulfric might be a pragmatist, but most Nords aren’t. You’re welcome to study here – you’d definitely qualify as a Journeyman from what I’ve heard – but I’m not getting involved in the civil war. Not if we have trouble in Saarthal.”

            “It may be chosen for you if you don’t choose,” Callaina said quietly. “I learned that the hard way.”

            “If that happens, I’ll worry about it then.” Savos nodded dismissively. “Talk to Urag. He found a few things on dragons.”

            She inclined her head and headed for the stairs. Her hands were going to be full with this College, let alone Alduin.


	19. Confrontations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. May I suggest reading ‘The Winter War’ simultaneously with this story, as it will be covering the civil war, Companions and Dark Brotherhood storylines, because I want to give them proper attention instead of shoving them to the background of Callaina’s narrative. Trigger warning for death, violence and the mention of eugenics.

 

 “So we have a dragon running around preparing to eat the world and now something big, bad and dangerous has been unearthed in Saarthal. Kodlak Whitemane of the Companions said my presence in Winterhold would make the difference – so I need information on dragons, Saarthal, the Psijic Order and big spheres inscribed with magical runes that might destroy us all.”

            Urag grunted after Callaina outlined the events of the day. “I’ve found everything we’ve got on dragons, which is precious little. Even when the Ysmir Collective was founded in the time of King Olaf, the Thu’um was considered too sacred for the likes of secular mages to study and dragons were long gone.”

            Callaina sighed. “Go figure. I’ve got the Blades trying to manipulate me and the Greybeards piss me off with their holier-than-thou attitude.”

            “The Blades still exist?” Urag shrugged. “Well, the Greybeards are the ones who know the Thu’um. I’ll help you where I can. But where does Saarthal and the Psijic Order fit in all this?”

            She related what she knew and the orc chewed on his bottom lip for a moment. “I _had_ some books on Saarthal but they got stolen by an idiot apprentice who decided to join a coven of necromancers.”

            Callaina muttered one of the pithier phrases she’d learned from reluctant Orcish taxpayers and the librarian snickered. “You need to pronounce your gutturals deeper in your throat,” he advised. “But not too bad.”

            “The Thu’um is very guttural,” she murmured. “Maybe I’ll learn properly through Shouting.”

            “Maybe.” Urag sighed. “Normally, I’d dispatch J’zargo or one of the Evokers to fetch the books but I’m fairly sure this coven of necromancers is at least a dozen strong. Our resident Journeyman’s too free with the fireballs, Enthir’s more likely to cut a deal that I won’t like and Phinis will just talk shop with them.”

            “What about Brelyna or Onmund?” Callaina asked.

            “Apprentices, though Brelyna’s on the verge of making Journeyman. Though the faculty’s free to come and go, we don’t send Apprentices on jobs without supervision – and since we’ve got this big sphere you’ve mentioned coming here, we don’t dare send someone like Tolfdir or Faralda.” Urag rubbed his nose. “I’m asking you to do this. You’re friends with the Companions of Jorrvaskr and you’ve got the Thu’um. I also heard about your little stunt with the stones – you know your limits.”

            “If I leave Winterhold and something goes wrong-“

            “What if you stay and something goes wrong?” Urag shrugged again. “You’re the only one with the freedom to come and go, Dragonborn.”

            She sighed. “I’m not happy, Urag.”

            “Neither am I. I can sweeten the deal by giving you some magical textbooks.” Urag nodded to a locked bookcase to his left. “These are advanced Alteration ones used by the Synodic Journeymen.”

            “You sly bastard,” she said dryly.

            “Thank you.” Urag sounded smug. “I’ve scried the books to Fellglow Keep on the Dawnstar-Whiterun border.”

            “That makes my life a little easier.” Callaina rubbed the back of her neck. “Do you have anything on the history of the Companions? I need to pay them and Vilkas in particular is a voracious reader.”

            “I’ve got a few _Songs of the Return_ volumes they mightn’t have. Or they might.” Urag chuckled. “I’ll pay them in some old combat manuals. Mostly Redguard and Imperial but they say the best warrior is a student of many styles.”

            “That might go down well. I can cast Transmute but it takes a lot out of me, so working my way through a pile of iron ore would be a shit of a job.”

            Urag grunted. “You need to work on increasing your attunement to the magical flows if you want to be a competent mage.”

            “Yeah, sure, I’ll find the time in between trying to get Jarl Korir to play nicely with the College, research this big magical ball and kill the dragons,” Callaina observed sardonically.

            “Do that.” Urag went to a bookcase and pulled out several books. “Ah, here we are. _The Mirror_ , _Night Falls on Sentinel_ , _The Gold Ribbon of Merit_ , _Battle of Red Mountain_ , _Orsinium and the Orcs_ , _The Rear Guard_ , and _Words and Philosophy._ I’m working on the assumption that they have all the Nordic warrior manuals.”

            “Well, I think so. Vilkas managed to teach me the Nine Blocks and Blows of Ysgramor in an afternoon,” Callaina agreed. “He’s an arse at times but a real genius otherwise.”

            She tucked the books into a satchel. “I don’t like this but we need those books on Saarthal.”

            “Agreed. I get the impression that Orthorn was wanting to raise the dead in Saarthal.” Urag scowled. “Messing with draugr is an idiotic idea.”

            “Orthorn’s the apprentice?”

            “Yes. He’s a fucking Altmer with shit for brains.” Urag grimaced. “I’m pretty sure if he hadn’t been born in Solitude, the Thalmor would have purged him.”

            “Lovely.” Callaina sighed. “I might as well get going. Tell Mirabelle and Savos what I’m doing?”

            “Of course. Good luck, Dragonborn. You’ll need it.”

…

“Are you going to get me the Helm of Winterhold or continue to prance around with the mages?”

            Callaina sighed, muttered a prayer to Kynareth for patience, and turned towards Jarl Korir. “The Ysmir Collective is the oldest collection of books in human lands, Saarthal was a place of dragon worship and I’ve already killed a bloody dragon for you,” she said testily. “So unless the Helm of Winterhold’s on my way to Whiterun, Jarl Korir, I fear you’re shit out of luck at the moment.”

            “It was left as an offering at Yngol’s Barrow just outside of Windhelm,” the Jarl shot back. “You’ve already desecrated Saarthal. What’s the tomb of Ysgramor’s beloved son to you?”

            “Are you typically this stupid or has the cold frozen your wits?” Callaina asked acidly. “You piss on the only reason your Hold still exists, sulk in your hall instead of trying to rebuild your town, and blame everyone else for your problems when you’re the fucking Jarl and should be leading!”

            Korir’s eyes widened with every word that fell from her mouth and by the time she was done, his jaw was hitting the floor. Kai Wet-Pommel was already wincing as he chopped firewood next to the Jarl’s hall. So much for the tact and diplomacy that the Imperial bureaucracy was famous for.

            “I will go to Yngol’s Barrow and retrieve the Helm you’re obviously too damn cheap to pay a Companion to get,” she continued icily. “But in return, I damn well expect you to sit down with Savos Aren and start talking. Or I will tell everyone I meet that you’re a milk-drinking snowback who’s an embarrassment to the Stormcloak cause.”

            “Who are you to demand terms of me?” Korir hissed.

            “I’m the Dragonborn and a fucking descendant of Talos!” Callaina patted the hilt of the Sword of the Septims. “I’m here as a favour to two people, none of which is you. Pull your fucking weight, Jarl Korir, or step aside and let someone competent take over.”

            Kai wasn’t just wincing, he was cringing. Callaina figured she was already halfway to Oblivion, so she might as well keep on going.

            Korir’s eyes just narrowed. “Is that a challenge?”

            “It’s a suggestion,” she retorted. “I have to go find some important tomes. I’ll collect your bloody helmet on the way there. In the meantime, pull your head out of your arse and start thinking of ways you can help Winterhold.”

            She turned away and marched towards where the carriage would stop. The number of people who expected her to do shit for them was staggering. At least no other dragons had arrived in Winterhold; she wasn’t keen on facing one of those scaly bastards on her own.

            Akatosh was bound and determined to make this path difficult for her, that was for certain.

…

“Korlaina said _what_ to Korir?”

            Sigdrifa was torn between hilarity and horror as Kai related her daughter’s confrontation with the Jarl of Winterhold. One of her personal picks for Stormcloak commander, he and Dawnstar’s Frorkmar Banner-Torn had to be in Windhelm anyways for the northern stage of Ulfric’s winter war, so receiving an update on the situation in Winterhold was a bonus. Solid, dependable and comfortable with magic, Wet-Pommel could, in a pinch, make a suitable replacement for Korir if the folk couldn’t decide on their own.

            “The College found something _big_ in Saarthal and my source in the College tells me that the Psijic Order, whoever they are, spoke to the Dragonborn directly,” Kai finished, warming his hands over a small brazier. Sigdrifa’s office, a former storage closet, didn’t have the luxury of a fireplace. “She didn’t look happy to be going south again – and truth be told, I’m not happy to see her go.”

            “Why?” Sigdrifa ladled some barley broth into a cup for him.

            “Because Winterhold is the heart of a storm at the moment and if we can prove Kraldar’s been conspiring with the Imperials, it will fuck up what’s left of our line of succession,” Kai said bluntly. “Korir’s ineffectual, partly through the lack of resources and partly through the fact he lacks initiative. We’re the most vulnerable Hold in the northern marches and one good Legion squad could occupy the town.”

            “Korlaina can’t raise arms against the Empire,” Sigdrifa told him flatly. “She’s an aspect of Akatosh forced to make that vow on the corpse of an Avatar of the same god. I shudder at the metaphysical consequences of breaking such an oath.”

            “She can get the College to help though. Savos is worried and according to my source, the only reason Ancano of the Thalmor is still alive is because all three Altmer faculty have family back in the Dominion who would die a slow, painful death if someone killed him,” Kai reported. “As a whole, the College is at least mildly negative towards the Empire for the Synod and College of Whispers trying to drag them into Imperial politics. Most of the Bosmeri, Altmer and Khajiit faculty are exiles or refugees from the Thalmor, so no love lost there.”

            Frorkmar cradled his cup of warmed mead. “You trust your source?”

            “Apprentice Onmund? He’s a Nord-“

            “I know him. Born of the Broken-Tusk clan, joined the College of Winterhold in defiance of them,” Frorkmar interrupted. “Good lad for all his interest in magic.”

            “Sorcery won’t go away any time soon,” Sigdrifa pointed out. “The Dragonborn, _my daughter_ , is a fairly decent mage herself and I use Destruction spells in combat.”

            “It’s not the magic I have a problem with, Stormsword,” Banner-Torn said stiffly. “It’s the foreign magic I don’t trust. We followers of the Old Ways have magics of our own but those weren’t good enough for Onmund. He didn’t just want to call fish and horkers, he wanted to cast fire and call storms.”

            “Battlemage? We could use a decent one of those,” Sigdrifa told the Dawnstar commander calmly. “A good battlemage is worth ten soldiers if used properly.”

            She sighed and shook her head. “I trust Korlaina to handle matters in Winterhold. Events have a habit of shifting around the Dragonborn and she… well, she brought the information that has led Ulfric to get moving. We have a war to worry about. Frorkmar, how’s the fleet going…”

            Sigdrifa had to trust that her daughter was strong enough to bear the burden of saving the world, because she had no attention to spare. If Skyrim wasn’t won by spring, they were dead because the Legions would be reinforced. She knew, deep in her bones, the war would be won in the north.

…

Killing draugr had become almost routine for Callaina. She even managed to freeze the king-draugr – likely Yngol himself – with that ice Shout she knew two Words for. She almost wished she’d found another dragon with the Companions so she could unlock them both. Almost. She might have accepted that she was Dragonborn but no way was she comfortable with it.

            Two fancy helms and an ornate steel sword later (she had no damn clue which one was the Helm of Winterhold), she was leaving the barrow and crossing the ice to Windhelm’s docks proper. Several Argonians, all of them swathed in rabbit furs and thick homespun, stopped work to watch her create crude ice steps up to the stone pier. A barked command from Suvaris got them working again.

            “It’s good to see you again,” the womer said with a faint smile. She was looking a little more prosperous now, orange apron-dress and shift embroidered with Dunmer patterns beneath a thick cloak of white snow fox.

            “And you.” Callaina nodded to the workers. “Is Torbjorn paying them fairly?”

            Her mouth pursed. “For a Nord who employs Argonian labourers, he’s giving them a fair wage.”

            The Dragonborn cast a pointed glance at the docks. “The only Nords on the docks I’m seeing are guards or sailors. They should be getting a loader’s wage.”

            “I’ve no love for the Argonians but… you have a point.” Suvaris sighed and rubbed her face. “If you can find the time, drop some hints to Torbjorn. They’ll come better from you than me.”

            “I’ll do better. I’ll go to Egil.” She shifted her bundle. “How are things in the Grey Quarter?”

            “Tense. Prince Egil hasn’t managed to meet the leaders yet because of the preparations the Stormcloaks are making for their harvest raids. Ulfric’s paranoid about spies.” Suvaris snorted. “The Empire sent the Nerevarine to us and destroyed our home. We lost the thrice-blessed and… Ah, you don’t need to listen to me complain.”

            “So you’re not a fan of the Reclamations?” Callaina asked curiously. “I apologise for prying but-“

            “Almalexia, Vivec and Sotha Sil cared directly for our people for thousands of years,” Suvaris said bluntly. “Azura, Boethiah and Mephala are more remote.”

            “I’m beginning to see why you’re in Skyrim instead of Morrowind with an attitude like that,” Callaina noted. “I spent time in the Imperial District and you’d think the Reclamations were the best thing since baked bread.”

            “I’m a heretic by Morrowind standards,” Suvaris admitted. “Skyrim is harsh and your people more so, but at least we are all equal in the cold. Some of my people would welcome the Empire because they’d be treated better but… well, so far as I’m concerned, we’d be trading one master for another.”

            Callaina looked blindly over the half-frozen sea. “Take from the woman who bowed to the Empire – they treat you alright while you’re useful, but once you’re not…”

            “Exactly. At least the Nords are honest about it.” Suvaris nodded to her. “You should talk to Oengus about that steel. He’ll give a fair price.”

            “Thanks but I’ve collected these for someone.” Callaina grimaced. “And then I have to go to Whiterun. Balgruuf’s going to love me.”

            “Funny you should mention Whiterun. Nothing’s come in for the past week,” Suvaris mused. “I wonder if this has something to do with the harvest raids?”

            “I don’t know but-“ Callaina looked at the Palace of the Kings. “I suspect I’ll find out.”


	20. Hope's All We Got

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. For reference, the first chapter of ‘The Winter War’ happened in between Chapters 18-19 of this story. You can read this story on its own and skip ‘The Winter War’ but you’ll be missing on half the narrative if you do as each story will reference the other. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence and fantastic racism. I head-canon that the Dragonborn influences events much like the ta’veren ability in the ‘Wheel of Time’ books – or maybe Callaina is just the butterfly of doom. *evil grin*
> 
> Also, NoxGold, you win. She’s gonna be Korli Broken-Blade.

 

“I’m paying them better!”

            “You’re still only paying them half the wages of a Nord free labourer when, from the looks of it, they do twice the work,” Callaina told Torbjorn acidly. She’d run into him on the way to the Palace of the Kings. “Are you trying to make more friends for the Empire? Because mistreating your dock workers is a damned good way to go about it. Under Imperial law, all workers get the same pay, regardless of race.”

            The shipping magnate’s bearded jaw set stubbornly. “I don’t have the coin to increase their wage beyond what I have, Dragonborn.”

            “Then pay them in kind or lessen the workload,” she said mercilessly. “Or you’ll lose more than you can afford thanks to smuggling and theft.”

            He scowled. “I’ll think about it.”

            “No, you’ll do it. Or the East Empire Trade Company will have taken your workers, your business and just about everything you hold dear.”

            Torbjorn blanched. “Is that a prophecy, Dragonborn?”

            “No, experience,” Callaina sighed. “Even if Jarl Ulfric frees Skyrim, the Company will be here. They don’t need more of a foothold than they have already.”

            “You’re right.” Torbjorn sighed. “I’ll pay them the same as the Nord workers.”

            “Thank you, Torbjorn.” Callaina smiled at him. “Talos with you.”

            “I hope _someone_ is. This is going to cost me a pretty septim.” He nodded and stalked off in the direction of the docks.

            Callaina sighed once more. Why was she responsible for sorting out every little problem that came her way?

            The Palace of the Kings was bustling, Ulfric Stormcloak, Galmar Stone-Fist and her mother in the war room. Much to Callaina’s surprise, Kai Wet-Pommel was also there, swathed in heavy snow bear furs. “I’m not sure whether to kiss or kill Ralof for what he’s done,” the Jarl of Windhelm was telling the others surrounding the map table.

            “Kiss him,” Sigdrifa suggested dryly. “He’s certainly prettier than me.”

            “That’s not hard,” Galmar drawled. “I’m of a mind with the Stormsword, Ulfric. Ralof’s taken the centre for us and tripled our winter supplies. He deserves a reward.”

            Kai lifted his chin to Callaina. “Dragonborn!” he greeted.

            Eyes turned in Callaina’s direction. A few pairs were unknown to her. She nodded shortly to the lot of them. “I found the Helm of Winterhold,” she told the Stormcloak commander wryly. “Except I don’t actually know which helmet is which.”

            “The three-spiked one,” Ulfric observed calmly. “And I see you have the Helm of Yngol and the Sword of Freydis too.”

            “I found them in the king-draugr’s chamber,” she said awkwardly. “I was heading this way anyway...”

            “Should shut Korir up for a few days,” Kai said, reaching for the three-spiked helmet. Now she saw the resemblance between it and Winterhold’s banner. “Where are you heading next?”

            “Whiterun Hold. I need to hire a Companion or two because there’s a coven of necromancers who, ah, acquired information about that artefact from Saarthal,” Callaina told him, gladly handing over the helmet.

            Ulfric rubbed his chin. “I want you to travel with a squad. Ralof liberated Whiterun before Balgruuf could be reinforced by the Legion but we’re expecting at least a token effort at a siege. My gratitude for warning us about Balgruuf’s intentions, kinswoman.”

            _…Shit._ “What’s going to happen to Balgruuf?”

            “He will be given a choice – exile to Morrowind or his head on a pike,” Ulfric said calmly. “He’s too dangerous and canny to allow any other choice.”

            “His family?” If she’d caused the death of children-

            “Lydia will remain as a hostage and the rest will be sent to Morrowind. I think Vignar has some idea about marrying his elder nephew Avulstein to your former huscarl.” Ulfric’s bottle-green eyes were steady. “I try not to kill children, Korlaina.”

            She set the Helm of Yngol and Freydis’ sword on the map table. “You’ve hamstrung trade in Skyrim.”

            “Trust an Imperial to think of that,” muttered one of the men in a commander’s bearskins.

            “We fight a winter war,” Sigdrifa said softly. “Skyrim’s own snows will help us.”

            “Armies in winter are hungry beasts,” she said slowly.

            “Balgruuf’s harvests are sufficient to feed our army,” Ulfric told her with surprising gentleness. “Things will be lean for Whiterun but they won’t starve.”

            “I set this in motion,” Callaina whispered. “My coming here…”

            “It would have happened anyway, girl,” Galmar said gruffly. “But your warning allowed Ralof to take Whiterun with a minimum of casualties.”

            Callaina swallowed. “I was one of those people who was left cold and hungry in the wake of more than one war, Ulfric. I was dispossessed just like the families of the Jarls you’ll remove from power will be. I was, in my way, a hostage like Lydia. I may side with the Stormcloaks because I have no choice, but please don’t ask me to rejoice in this war.”

            The commander who’d muttered about Imperials snorted derisively. “I didn’t think the Dragonborn would be such a milk drinker.”

            “She is a broken blade,” Ulfric said softly. “But a broken blade can still stab the enemy. Our war isn’t her war, Frorkmar, and she has the doom of facing Alduin World-Eater. So rejoice that the Dragonborn is a child of Kyne, not Talos, for the world doesn’t need another Septim Empire.”

            He nodded to Callaina. “Get some rest, Korlaina. You can travel with our reinforcements in the morning.”

            “Gods have mercy on us all,” she murmured as she turned away. “Because a winter war will have none.”

…

By the time they reached Whiterun, the Stormcloaks were calling her Korli Broken-Blade and treating her with a peculiar mix of reverence and pity. She was their prophesised saviour – and the descendant of Talos too broken to fight in a war. She was a Nord, the daughter of one of their greatest generals – and made into a tax collector by the Empire. She was their last hope – and weakest link.

            The city was subdued, the citizens going through the motions of daily life. It looked remarkably intact, though the offerings at Carlotta’s stall were mostly potatoes, gourds and goat’s cheese and Anoriath was selling rabbit, pheasant and a few cuts of venison. Stormcloaks stood guard where Balgruuf’s yellow-clad warriors once did and Olfrid Battle-Born was complaining to the redhead in steel plate that his house was broken into but no investigation was going on. Adrianne worked her forge with one eye on the Stormcloaks.

            Murmurs followed in Callaina’s wake and she wondered if anyone knew she’d inadvertently set this in motion. Would she be a pariah in Whiterun? The idea of being considered a quisling made her shudder inwardly.

            She detached herself from the squad once they reached the Wind District. The most damage was here, the trellis surrounding the dead Eldergleam tree broken and Heimskr’s house scorched. The priest of Talos still preached under the statue of the god triumphantly.

            Jorrvaskr was intact, the harsh bark of Vilkas drilling the whelps coming from around the back, Eorlund’s hammer still ringing against steel. Callaina took a deep breath and went around to the courtyard. What would Farkas think of her when he found out she’d led Ulfric to invade?

            Ria threw her the most betrayed glance imaginable as she sharpened her sword. “How could you betray us?” she asked in Colovian. “I know your grandfather was right about his ancestry but-“

            “My grandfather was insane and delusional,” Callaina interrupted bitterly. “As for _this_ , I don’t know how it happened. My big mouth, I suppose.”

            “The Empire won’t forgive this,” Ria told her. “Just tell me this – did the Stormcloaks send a werewolf to kill my cousin Vittoria at her wedding day?”

            “Wait, what?” Callaina stared at the Companion.

            “A werewolf murdered my cousin,” Ria repeated slowly.

            “I mean ‘your cousin’.” She regarded the stocky Imperial with a sharp glance. “There’s only one person you can be.”

            Ria lifted her chin. “Are you going to turn me in to the Stormcloaks?”

            “No, but I strongly advise you return to Cyrodiil, Countess of Bruma,” Callaina said softly. “Not for your safety but that of the world. Try and talk the Legion into retreat-“

            “The Legion never surrenders. And you should be using your Voice-!”

            “Against my mother and brothers?” Callaina’s laugh was harsh. “Oathbreaker or kinslayer, Ria, those were my choices. At least the Stormcloaks don’t expect me to fight their war!”

            “So if I were to leave, you won’t say anything about my identity?” Ria asked, eyes narrowed.

            “No, Akaviria Medea, I won’t,” the Dragonborn said grimly. “Your leave-taking would be my last service to the Empire.”

            The Emperor’s most likely heir lifted her chin once again in defiance. “Your oath on the Sword of the Septims. I don’t trust the word of an Aurelii.”

            “And I trust less the words of a Mede.” The granddaughter of a traitor caught and held the gaze of the granddaughter of an Emperor. “Leave now and don’t raise arms against the Stormcloaks unless it’s in direct defence of your life. That’s the most kindness I can show.”

            Ria held her gaze easily. “The Legion will be reinforced in the spring, Callaina. I hope you kill Alduin by then because Titus Mede will show no mercy.”

            “Tullius has to _survive_ the winter first. Tell him his best option is to retreat because the Bruma Fourth, even the Nords in it, aren’t used to the conditions. Skyrim Nords are the children of the sky and snow. Winter is nothing to them.”

            “Why are you so keen on sparing Legion lives?”

            Callaina’s smile was grim. “Because there’s an enemy out there who wants us all to die. Remember, the Thalmor are the only ones who win in a protracted war.”

            She turned for the door as Ria called out, “Is that you or the Dragonborn speaking?”

            “Both.” And she entered Jorrvaskr.

            Inside, Tilma was roasting a slab of mammoth on the spit, cutting off pieces to feed a few hungry-looking youngsters Callaina really didn’t know. One was a lanky blond-bearded Nord in iron armour, another a curvaceous white-haired female in leather, and the last a child in a ragged dress. “Eat up,” the old hearth-mistress urged. “It’s rabbit and pheasant out there.”

            “We killed a mammoth and put most of it into the cellar to dry,” Farkas murmured into her ear from behind. “When most of the Stormcloak army’s gone, we’ll be able to add it to the city’s winter stores.”

            Callaina sighed. “I told my family about Balgruuf’s plan and… this happened.”

            “Vilkas says things happen around the Dragonborn.” She saw his shadow shrug massive shoulders. “Eyes on the prey, Korli, not on the horizon. What brings you here today?”

            She sighed yet again. “I think I know what’s going to cause the ruckus in Winterhold and I need Companions to help me acquire information on it because, of course, it’s in the hands of a necromancer coven. As payment from the College I have several combat manuals from Cyrodiil, Hammerfell, High Rock and Morrowind.”

            “Vilkas will love them.” Heavy arms wrapped themselves around Callaina, pulling her against a warm broad chest. “Heard what’cha said to Ria. That was good.”

            “If Cyrodiil falls…” She sighed once more. “Tullius is a lot of things but he will retreat from a bad tactical position.”

            “You hope.”

            “I hope.”

            Farkas kissed the top of her head. “Sometimes hope’s all we got, Dragonborn.”


	21. Fellglow Keep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and the defilement of corpses. Taking a bit of an AU approach to Hitting the Books because that quest doesn’t take into account werewolves or non-scripted uses of Alteration. I’m also so sorry Irkand became an arsehole. Also head-canon on jills, the she-dragons and minute-menders of Akatosh.

 

Fellglow Keep was aptly named. From the Atronachs patrolling its walls to the eldritch glow of skin-hardening spells, the exterior promised death and worse than death to those who dared assault it.

            The necromantic coven who’d taken over the abandoned fortress didn’t consider the possibility that any attacker might possess extraordinary supernatural capabilities of their own. So when the werewolf arrived to deal with a canker on his doorstep, the sorcerers were swiftly slaughtered and their conjured creatures returned to Oblivion forthwith.

            Callaina now stood before the front door, which was locked and barred. Of course it was. But some dedicated training with Tolfdir had refined her ability to cast Transmute and she was now stocked up with magicka potions of all varieties and strengths.

            _The School of Alteration is all about possibilities, changing patterns, making things be what they could be._ The Dunmer had their own great Alteration textbook simply called _Breathing Water._ Presented as a parable, the lessons were hidden deep in the ebb and tide of the sentences. _But the spells of Alteration are all about uncommon sense. The infinite possibilities, breaking the sky, swallowing space, dancing with time, setting ice on fire, believing the unreal may become real. You must learn the rules of the cosmos and break them._

“Tré til flísar,” she murmured. _Wood to splinters._

The great boards of the door cracked and splintered into a thousand shards of jagged wood. Beyond them in a candlelit chamber stood a startled-looking sorceress in the skull-painted robe that most necromancers felt was fashionable in Skyrim. Even the College of Whispers had more style in their elaborate tattoos and graveyard jewellery.

            The astonishment quickly transformed into calculation. “Impressive,” she noted with genuine admiration in her voice. “Such talent in the School of Alteration is rare.”

            “Thanks,” Callaina responded. “I wish I could say the same about your acolytes’ skill in Conjuration.”

            The sorceress sighed. “The apprentices were always a little excitable. I suppose they saw you and your furry friend as potential thralls.”

            Farkas growled and the mage chuckled. “Don’t worry, guard dog. I am willing to negotiate with your mistress. I suppose you’re here for Orthorn?”

            “I actually don’t give a rat’s arse about Orthorn,” Callaina admitted. “I am, however, here for the books he stole from the College of Winterhold.”

            She studied Callaina’s clothing. “You’re not in mage robes.”

            The Dragonborn regarded her sardonically. “Not all of us need to advertise our calling.”

            “True, I suppose. So you’re looking for the books? I can give them to you if you’re willing to leave peaceably. I have no quarrel with the College and that idiot brought me absolutely useless texts.”

            “I can do that,” Callaina said carefully. “I have no direct quarrel with you… yet.”

            The master necromancer nodded. “Stay there and I will bring them to you.”

            They waited, though Farkas gave Callaina an askance glance. The werewolves of Jorrvaskr could apparently speak in beast form, a side effect of their unique form of lycanthropy, but it wasn’t something they advertised for obvious reasons. She smiled at him reassuringly. She knew what she was doing. Mostly.

            On the necromancer giving her the books, Callaina checked them and nodded. “These are what I’m looking for,” she confirmed.

            “Excellent.” The mage rubbed her chin. “Have you considered branching out? We’re performing some experiments and someone with your command of Alteration would come in useful.”

            “Sorry, molesting corpses isn’t my cup of tea,” Callaina replied sweetly. “I’d rather fuck with reality.”

            Most mages channelled spells through their hands for any number of reasons, usually having to do with convention and convenience. Alteration could alter the entire body, hardening skin and shaping lungs to extract air from water, and so the Synodic mages learned to use other parts for spellcasting. It was one of the more useful skills Callaina had acquired during her time with them.

            “Steinn til kviksyndi!” she yelled, channelling power through her feet and trusting Farkas to be quick enough to yank her out of the way of the sudden morass.

            He was, though barely. The necromancer sunk through the quicksand and Callaina clenched her fists to lock the woman into place by transforming the sand into stone once again.

            “The College of Winterhold has strict rules involving necromancy you’ve been violating,” she informed the trapped mage severely. “I can only imagine why you’d want someone with Alteration – and what comes to mind is sickening.”

            She drew the Sword of the Septims and struck off her head. It bounced against a wall with a full thud and rolled to a stop nearby.

            “Judging by the noises, I think they realise something’s going on,” Farkas growled. “Ready?”

            Callaina drained a magicka regeneration potion. “Ready.”

…

Orthorn turned out to be a sallow Altmer who showed the sickly angular features of a little too much inbreeding in the Thalmor gene pool. He was pathetically grateful to be rescued but rather less so when he realised Callaina wasn’t here for him but the books. “Anything else you’ve taken from the College library?” she asked, tapping the broken end of her sword against her gloved hand.

            He shook his head. “Not at all. I’ve learned my mistakes.”

            “Good. I strongly suggest you leave Skyrim and don’t come back.” Callaina bared her teeth in nothing that resembled a smile. “Piss off.”

            He scurried away and she sighed, shaking her head. “Kynareth save me from idiots.”

            “I think you should’ve killed him.” Behind her, she felt the warping of reality that heralded Farkas’ return to human form.

            “Maybe. But I’ve killed some people in pretty horrible ways today.” Callaina sighed again. “And I didn’t even blink.”

            “After seeing what they did, can’t blame you.” But Farkas came up to nuzzle her head comfortingly. “But the best death’s a clean death. You stay better than them that way.”

            “You’re right.” Callaina leaned into his strength, allowing herself the luxury of relying on another for a moment. “Let’s go. There might be some useful loot here.”

            She found _A Hypothetical Treachery_ , one of the great Destruction textbooks presented as a play, and other valuable items. “Reading material for the trip home,” she chuckled. “I need to work on my Destruction skills.”

            “You do plenty of damage with Alteration,” Farkas observed dryly. Sometimes he showed his resemblance to Vilkas in more than looks.

            “Alteration requires concentration. So does Destruction, but that’s the easiest of the Schools because you’re just turning magicka into raw physical effects. Alteration requires that you shift your perception of the world and change the world to fit that perception.” Callaina nodded to the werewolf. “Every time you shift, you’re using a Daedric version of Alteration, if I understand it correctly.”

            “Huh.” Farkas shrugged. “You’re the mage. So where does the Thu’um come in?”

            “Probably on the border between Alteration and Destruction,” Callaina murmured absently as she picked up a Conjuration spellbook. “It predates the Schools as we know them.”

            She tucked it away. “Return to Whiterun? I imagine it’s pretty dark now and the carriage to Winterhold won’t be there until mid-afternoon tomorrow.”

            “Yeah. The plains are pretty safe, ‘specially since I’m with you.” Farkas smiled down at her.

            “Are they safe because I’m with you or because you’re with me?” she asked with a laugh.

            “Both. You’re getting better at fighting.”

            Callaina chuckled. “Swing a sword enough times, you either get the hang of it or you die.”

            The walk back to Whiterun was accomplished under a full red moon. Farkas sniffed the air. “Irkand’s around,” he observed. Then he howled.

            Even in beast form, her uncle was stealthy; she only noticed him when a grey-black shape detached itself from the shadows of a grassy knoll, writhing into the stocky form of the Redguard. “Yes?” he asked testily.

            “Just letting you know there was a group of necromancers up at that keep near the Shrine of Talos,” Farkas rumbled. “Some of them might have been away when we paid a visit and you looked like you were going in that direction.”

            Irkand’s eyes narrowed but he nodded. “Thank you for the warning, Farkas. It is appreciated.”

            “We don’t see eye to eye but you’re pack.”

            “Until you are cured.” Irkand looked at Callaina. “What are you doing here? Avoiding your duty as Dragonborn, I suppose?”

            “Chasing up some research that may pertain to an early site of the Dragon Cult,” Callaina responded, mimicking the mild tone he liked to use when rebuking someone. “There are reasons ranging from the personal to the metaphysical as to why I couldn’t work with Rikke’s plans, Uncle Irkand. I don’t tell you how to assassinate people, so don’t tell me how to do my job.”

            “They call you Broken-Blade,” he noted, glancing pointedly at the Sword of the Septims.

            “Well, even a broken blade can stab the enemy,” she retorted.

            “I suppose that’s true.” He regarded her sternly. “You should go to Ustengrav. The Greybeards won’t teach you until you bring the horn to them.”

            “And where Delphine will contact me,” she said flatly.

            Farkas blinked. “Delphine? Only Delphine I know owns the Sleeping Giant Inn in Riverwood.”

            Callaina’s laugh was sour. “I can’t imagine her running an inn but there you go.”

            Irkand scowled. “Do you understand the meaning of _discretion_? One wrong word and Delphine could be killed by the Thalmor.”

            “I’m not a spy or assassin,” Callaina said bluntly. “I’m trying to do the best I can and for the most part, all I’m getting is people trying to manipulate me instead of help me.”

            His face grew rigid. “You are a child who thinks she knows better than her elders. Run and hide, little dragon, while those who _do_ decide the fate of the world.”

            He shifted into beast form. “I pray you manage to succeed in your destiny, Callaina, or the sacrifices of thousands will be in vain.”

            Her uncle loped off into the night, leaving Farkas growling. “I should-“

            “Don’t. Irkand is deadly because he’ll use tactics you’d never even consider against you.” Callaina sighed, surprised she felt a pang of hurt at her uncle’s dismissal. “I guess I’m a bloody disappointment to everyone, aren’t I?”

            “I’d prefer a broken blade to a poisoned one,” the werewolf growled. “We better get to Jorrvaskr.”

            Callaina nodded to him. “Good idea. It can be dangerous at night.”

            His quicksilver gaze was opaque. “It isn’t that, but you’re right.”

            The return to Jorrvaskr was accomplished in silence. It was quiet when they entered the meadhall, a dim light burning in Kodlak’s study indicating the Harbinger’s wakefulness. Callaina followed Farkas; she might as well tell the old man what was going on in Winterhold.

            Kodlak welcomed them with a weary wasted smile. “Hello,” he said. “How is Winterhold?”

            “Trouble,” she sighed, relating all she knew. When it was over, the Harbinger leaned back in his chair, looking troubled.

            “I don’t understand magic but what you’ve said about this sphere fits the eye,” he finally observed. “As for the labyrinth – well, Labyrinthian is located in Hjaalmarch on the border with Whiterun.”

            “Shalidor’s Maze,” Callaina breathed. “Dear gods…”

            “You would likely know more about that than I,” Kodlak murmured.

            “Only because I have access to the College.” She leaned forward and squeezed the old warrior’s hand. “I’ll look for anything on werewolves there.”

            The Harbinger shook his head. “No, Korlaina. It is the Circle’s burden to bear and our curse to cure.”

            “But I can help. You’ve helped me enough.”

            “It has been laid upon us by Tsun and our hope of Sovngarde,” Kodlak told her gently. “I have dreamed it, Dragonborn. If we are successful, I will stand with you against the World-Eater.”

            Callaina smiled sadly. “One look at you in your prime and he’ll slink back to the hole he came from.”

            “It will take a little more than that.” Kodlak smiled gently. “They call you Broken-Blade, I hear.”

            “It’s… appropriate,” she conceded. “I’m not the hero anyone wants.”

            “But you’re the hero Skyrim has.” His eyes grew distant. “The broken blade can still stab the enemy. You have set events in motion; that is the nature of the she-dragon, to mend the minutes in the Time-Dragon’s broken back. A time-wound mars Kyne’s throat and with the scroll you will mend it. Thread the Maze, close the Eye, mend the Wound, bind the Black Dragon. All else, though you set it in motion, is not your concern. Reality is a falsehood but you can make it true.”

            He blinked, returning to the present. “Forgive me, the foresight of the Harbingers is becoming stronger. I don’t know why.”

            “Time is converging on this battle between me and the World-Eater,” Callaina said quietly. “But the Eye is the more pressing issue.”

            “Yes. Time runs short there. If you fail, the blackcoat will make reality a falsehood in truth.” Kodlak shuddered.

            “Wonderful.” Callaina sighed. “I’ll leave in the morning for Winterhold. No rest for the wicked.”

            Kodlak’s smile was sweet. “Of all the things you are, Callaina, wicked isn’t one of them. If it means anything to you, I approve of you and Farkas.”

            “Thank you, Kodlak.” Farkas’ tone was grateful. “Korli, you go get some sleep. I gotta tell the Harbinger something and while I don’t wanna be rude-“

            “It’s Companion business. I understand.” Callaina rose to her feet and kissed the big warrior on the cheek. “I’ll see you in the morning before I go.”

            “Hope so.” He kissed the top of her head. “Sleep well, sweetheart.”

            “You too, hon.” She smiled at them and went to bed.

            In the morning, nothing would be the same.


	22. The Great Hall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warnings for mentions of death, violence, torture and fantastic racism. Referencing Arthmoor’s excellent ‘Cutting Room Floor Mod’ here; I recommend it for a bit of cut content. Also, setting up for an AU ‘Diplomatic Immunity’ quest.

 

Callaina figured that by now, she was on a first-name basis with the carriage drivers who worked on the Whiterun, Windhelm and Winterhold routes. The words of Ragnar the Red ran endlessly through her mind, still preferable to the memory of a decapitated old man in the bedroom that once belonged to Balgruuf. What possessed Irkand to go to the Dark Brotherhood? The kindly uncle of her childhood was replaced by the remorseless cold-eyed tool of her adulthood.

            Somewhere around Heljarchen in the south end of the Pale where it sort of merged with Winterhold and nudged Eastmarch a little, she realised that he wanted a return to the certainty of his life in the Blades. Callaina, in refusing to be the leader that the remnants of the order wanted, had failed to provide Irkand the guidance he craved. The Companions encouraged their members to think for themselves and make their own moral decisions. Irkand wanted someone else to make those moral choices and let him murder with a clear conscience – or as close to one as he could manage.

            She laughed harshly, drawing a startled gaze from Borlam. Her uncle wanted the freedom to be the murderer he always was. The Dark Brotherhood would give him that, she supposed.

            They arrived in Windhelm around dusk and Callaina pursed her lips, standing by the stables. In the end, she decided to go to the Palace. Ulfric and Egil should hear about Vignar from family; if she understood correctly, the Grey-Manes were the Jarl’s maternal kin. Until Avulstein was found, Ralof would stand as Regent – and if Eorlund’s eldest didn’t want the job, he’d become the Jarl of Whiterun. There was a blood connection or something.

            She ran her mind through the most likely candidates for hiring the Dark Brotherhood. On the Imperial side, she could see General Tullius leaning on someone like the reputedly nasty Maven Black-Briar to acquire their services as an act of vengeance for the death of Vittoria Vici. On the Stormcloak side, the Silver-Bloods of Markarth were reputedly corrupt enough to consider it. Or it could be a third party like the Thalmor trying to weaken both sides by exacerbating the conflict.

            Callaina was so lost in thought she literally ran into the metal doors of the Palace of the Kings, much to the amusement of the door guards. She rubbed her skinned nose, blushed and entered the Great Hall.

            It was dinnertime and Egil presided over a gathering of minor nobility. Callaina recognised Torbjorn Shatter-Shield and Torsten Cruel-Sea but the wheat-blond man with the spiral war paint on one cheek and a missing eye was a stranger. Much to her surprise, there were a couple Dunmer sitting at the high table. No Argonians though. Two hereditary enemies at dinner were quite enough, she supposed.

            She looked at her youngest brother as a stranger to the hall would. He was the Stormsword’s son in appearance, athletic rather than burly, with the coarse black hair and craggy, high-boned features that might become handsome in a few years. His eyes were blue-green like the rest of the Kreathling royal clan but instead of Callaina’s gold-washed hue or Sigdrifa’s sea-ice, his were the shade of the alkali-riddled pools of the Aalto volcanic plains. His baritone was a little lighter than Ulfric’s but still resonant for his fourteen years.

            _He’s growing up fast,_ she realised grimly as she walked towards the high table. _Is Ulfric putting too much on him?_

“Sister,” Egil greeted with a nod. “Join us, please.”

            She accepted a seat after handing her cloak to a servant, rubbing her eyes wearily. “Thanks. Wish I could say I was here with good news but…”

            “We know about Vignar,” Egil said softly. “If you have anything else to add, it can be discussed in the war room later.”

            “Sure.” She reached for the bottle of Alto wine and poured herself a cup. “I’m heading back to Winterhold tomorrow morning. We’ve made a breakthrough on something.”

            “I trust your expertise,” he said simply. “How goes the fight against the dragons?”

            “Quiet. They’re lairing on mountains and tombs that were sacred to the Dragon Cult but until I get some reliable muscle, I’m not picking fights with the ones who aren’t attacking people.” She sipped from the bittersweet wine, feeling a little alcoholic warmth seep into her bones. “They’re not going to go away once Alduin’s dealt with. I’d rather not make enemies if I can help it.”

            “If Alduin’s the big black bastard, he’s been raising dragons in the Reach,” rumbled the one-eyed blond in an accent painfully like Farkas’. “They’re nesting around Karthspire.”

            Callaina muttered something rude in Orcish under her breath. “Of _course_ they are. Karthspire’s where the old Akaviri Temple is. Everything the Blades knew about the dragons is stored there. Bloody wonderful.”

            The blond smirked. “You need to utter your gutturals deeper.”

            “Yes, so Urag keeps on telling me.” She sighed. “I’m Aurelia Callaina, the so-called Dragonborn. Most Skyrim Nords call me Korli Broken-Blade.”

            “Argis the Bulwark.” They shook hands. “I’ve been briefing Prince Egil on the situation in the Reach.”

            “The Silver-Bloods need to go,” Egil said grimly. “Convincing my father of the necessity may be difficult as he fought alongside Thongvor during the Great War and alongside Thonar during the Markarth Incident.”

            “Thonar’s the nasty one,” Argis observed. “If there was any kind of justice in the world, we’d throw him and Madanach into a pit full of vipers.”

            Egil made a noise of agreement before nodding to the Dunmer. “The gentlemer are Ambarys Rendar and Revyn Sadri of the Grey Quarter.”

            “Azura’s Prophecy guide you to good fortune, muthseras,” Callaina greeted with an inclination of the head.

            Revyn, whose eyes were the brilliant red of rubies, smiled slightly. “And may the Prophecy which guides you do the same, Dragonborn.”

            Ambarys nodded, his expression curt. From what Callaina knew of the Dunmer, he had little love for the Nords and was here only because he had to be. “Muthsera,” he said shortly.

            “The Dunmer have requested permission to build a shrine to Azura,” Egil said quietly. “Apparently, the nearest ones are in Solstheim or past Winterhold.”

            “What’s the issue?” Callaina asked bemusedly. “The Stormcloaks are fighting for the freedom to worship as they please. The Dunmer should have the same right.”

            Torbjorn began to bristle. “This isn’t Morrowind! Azura is a foreign god!”

            “And some of the Nine Divines came from outside,” Callaina said with a sigh. “Akatosh and Zenithar. We have Mara in common with the mer and the Redguards, though they call Her Mowhra in Hammerfell. The rest of the Divines are the Imperialised versions of the old Nordic gods – Stendarr, Julianos, Dibella, Arkay and Kynareth are very different to their old aspects. Talos mantled Ysmir to become the Ninth Divine.”

            “What do you know of the old faith?” Torsten asked quietly.

            “Not a lot, though my early Alteration training was at the hands of a mage who worshipped Talos and Jhunal. I’ve met a Valkyria of Kyne and damned if she didn’t give me the chills.”

            Egil’s smile was wry. “The Valkyria is a mistress of ice and storm magic, Korli. If she didn’t give you the chills, she wouldn’t be doing her job.”

            “She knew my dragon name before I told anyone,” Callaina admitted softly. “Kah-Lah-Nah. Pride-Magicka-Fury.”

            Even at an almost whisper, the words rattled the table.

            “Azura is fairly benevolent but She’s a Daedric Prince,” Argis pointed out.

            “And my great-great-grandmother mantled Sheogorath after my great-great-grandfather became an Avatar of Akatosh,” Callaina added with a wry smile almost like Egil’s. “My great-grandfather was born before that though.”

            “Ah yes, the Madgoddess,” Ambarys observed dryly. “One corner of the House of Troubles.”

            “Yeah. I have an interesting ancestry.” Callaina drank some more wine. “So I’m the last one to be telling someone who the hell they can worship. And on a pragmatic note, Azura’s priests are happy to share their prophecies with non-Dunmer, provided said petitioner is respectful.”

            Torbjorn grunted. “I don’t like it but I know you, Egil. You’ll do as you please.”

            “Father’s given me permission to grant certain concessions to the Dunmer in return for their support of the Stormcloaks.” Egil’s alkali eyes switched to the two Dunmer. “I will allow a reasonable shrine – no more than three rooms. And only Azura – the other Reclamations are best worshipped in private homes _without_ bloodshed.”

            Ambarys scowled but Revyn nodded. “We’ll send word to Aranea Ienith at the Statue of Azura. She has prophetic abilities that, if Azura allows it, will be helpful.”

            “There is an enemy above and beyond the Empire that has wronged both our peoples,” Egil agreed grimly. “The Thalmor would destroy us both.”

            “They’ll destroy the damned world if it means they can get their bloody divinity back,” Callaina confirmed.

            Revyn snorted. “What’s the point of immortality if you can’t enjoy it?”

            “Something about blissful reunion with raw magicka.” Callaina shrugged. “I don’t care. The world can be a lousy place but there’s love and hope and life in it too.”

            “In other words, don’t throw the baby out with the bathwater,” Argis chuckled.

            “Exactly.” Callaina grinned at him. She might be a little tipsy. “Egil, we better talk about Whiterun before I drop from exhaustion.”

            “Understood.” The Prince rose to his feet. “Feel free to enjoy the hospitality of the Palace, all of you. I will return soon.”

            The others made various farewells and Callaina followed her brother into Ulfric’s war room, where the Stormcloak himself was poring over that flag-studded map of Skyrim. “Galmar’s leading the charge in Morthal,” he explained, looking up. “Hello, Kah-Lah-Nah. How goes Winterhold?”

            “I have some critical information for the College and the Psijic Order’s definitely intervening,” Callaina replied with a nod. “They’re no friends of the Thalmor, so I think we can trust them in this case.”

            Ulfric nodded slowly. “Understood. Ralof tells me that you’ve seen Vignar’s body. How bad was it?”

            “It was a werewolf,” she admitted.

            “Not Arnbjorn though.” Ulfric straightened up but continued to lean against the table. “I know Irkand’s a werewolf.”

            Callaina blinked. “How the hell-?”

            The Jarl smiled thinly. “I have agents in Solitude who saw a Redguard matching his appearance entering the Temple of the Divines and a werewolf emerging from it.”

            “Son of a bitch,” she sighed. “He’s probably working for the Dark Brotherhood, you know.”

            “Yes, likely.” Ulfric’s tone was now hard as iron. “Vignar was my kinsman, Korli. I cannot show mercy beyond a clean death to your uncle.”

            She met the Jarl’s eyes. “I won’t be getting in the way, Ulfric. But be careful – Irkand’s most dangerous when he’s cornered.”

            “I know.” He sighed. “The deaths seem random.”

            “I don’t think they are,” she disagreed. “Vittoria Vici was the Emperor’s first cousin.”

            “We know. Asgeir Snow-Shod was marrying her as a way to keep trade links open – and have a convenient hostage – when we liberate Skyrim,” Ulfric said. “Now, that won’t work.”

            “No, it won’t. You know, if Tullius loses another Hold to you, Titus Mede himself will come to Skyrim.” Callaina smiled sourly at Ulfric’s start of surprise. “Tullius is the general of last resort. If he fails, you get the Emperor himself.”

            “And?”

            “He’s old but the healing mages have kept his faculties intact. He’s a bastard, Ulfric, but we both know he’s still a good commander.”

            “All the more reason to win this winter war.” Ulfric sighed and rubbed his face. “Skyrim needs heroes and all she has is us.”

            Callaina laughed sourly. “Quite the joke, isn’t it? Almost as much as-“

            “Skyrim’s tax system, I know.” Ulfric finished her catch phrase with a sour smirk of his own. “Go to bed, Korli. What we plan now must be between Egil and I.”

            “Good luck,” she told him. “I mean that. Titus Mede will just pike your head before the gates of the White-Gold Tower. Me – he’ll crucify. With a healing mage to keep me alive to enjoy the experience as long as possible.”

            She turned away. “That’s what he did to my grandfather after the Thalmor delivered his drooling husk to them. I know, better than you, the price of failure.”


	23. The Jarl of Winterhold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warnings for death, violence and fantastic racism. Finally back to the mage storyline!

 

Callaina returned to Winterhold on a cold grim day. Only one guard patrolled the street, which was a disaster waiting to happen, and Birna was arguing with Ranmir again. The town drunk was looking a little more sober and neat but his sister was the kind to find fault in nearly anything. She sighed and shook her head. Only the gods knew what had happened at the College in her absence-.

            Her musings were shattered by the unmistakeable roar of a dragon. Well, shit. Just when she was tired, cold and achy from the long trip on a wagon.

            “Get into the inn and down into the cellar!” she snapped at everyone outside. “Birna, make sure that Nelacar gets his sorry Altmer arse out here. Guards, use arrows until the bastard lands, then close in and go for the wings with hammers and axes. I’ll do the rest.”

            The dragon, bronze-skinned and sinuous, hovered just outside Winterhold. Callaina cast Oakflesh with her left hand and called Ice Spike to her right as she strode towards the open space. She was so fucking screwed.

            “Drem Yol Lok,” she called out. Maybe, just maybe, he wanted to talk. Not likely, but any battle averted was a good one.

            His response was a blast of ice. Nope, not wanting to talk.

            Callaina switched to Firebolt, dismissed her Oakflesh spell and drew the Sword of the Septims. She could use some arrows right about now.

            “You don’t have to do this!” she told the dragon. “I don’t want to kill you!”

            “I bring your corpse to Al-Du-In and He will lift me above all other dovahhe,” the dragon responded. “What kind of dovah does not want to fight?”

            “A jill,” she snapped. She wasn’t sure if she was one of the minute-menders but she knew she was a female and a dragon, so therefore she was a jill. Maybe. “And fine. I’ve got a couple Words that I need to unlock. Your soul will do nicely.”

            He opened his maw to Shout or speak and Callaina lobbed a Firebolt right into his throat. If nothing else, her aim with things – always good – had improved out of sight.

            So began a fight for the ages. Well, not quite. It mostly involved Callaina running around, ducking behind boulders, throwing Firebolts at the dragon’s wings and wondering where the fuck the archers were. She finally brought the beast to earth, bloodied and burned, and used Telekinesis to lift a huge rock before slamming it onto his head with a grotesque crack.

            The surge of golden energy took her, coalescing into a brief glimpse of the dovah-that-was before granting her the second Word of a Shout she now knew to be Ice Form. Callaina slumped beside the skeleton of her kinsman and began to cry hoarsely. She hated this, she realised. She hated killing the only beings like her in this world. But they were more frightened of Alduin than her.

            Finally, Callaina wiped her tears and stood up. She was going to tear Kai and Korir a new one.

            The Jarl was sitting on his throne, the Helm of Winterhold perched on his head. “You’ve finally returned,” he observed dryly.

            “I just fucking killed a dragon,” she snarled. “Where the fuck was Kai and the guard?”

            Korir blinked. “Kai and the bulk of Winterhold’s forces have joined Sigdrifa’s muster at Dawnstar.”

            “ _Lovely._ Your Hold’s vulnerable to invasion from a couple mudcrabs, let alone the Legion,” Callaina said flatly. “Who’s in charge of the guard? I intend to have words with them on why I wasn’t supported in the fight.”

            “You’re the Dragonborn. It’s your duty to fight the dragons,” Korir pointed out.

            “A little help comes in handy!” She pointed with her chin at the Helm. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

            “Kai brought me the Helm.”

            “After I gave it to him.” Callaina took a deep breath to calm herself. Pissing off this petty noble wasn’t going to help anyone. “Now will you be willing to talk to the Arch-Mage or Master Wizard? Like it or not, the College is here and you’ll have to deal with them.”

            “They had something to do with the Great Collapse!” Korir shot back.

            “You know this how?” Callaina sheathed the Sword of the Septims.

            “A whole city doesn’t just crumble into the ground and the College remain intact!”

            Callaina took another deep breath and tried to keep her voice calm. “How much, Jarl Korir, do you know about how the world was built?”

            “The gods made it,” he replied in a surly tone. “What more do you need to know?”

            “My particular magical talents lie in Alteration.” Callaina called Candlelight to hover around her body, casting her features in a faintly turquoise glow. “Enchanting and Alchemy are the School’s closest kin – and I have a good working knowledge of those disciplines too. These are the three magical disciplines that deal with the world and how it is built.”

            Korir glared at her. “I’ll have no magic in my hall!”

            “Then I want to you to lose the staff in your bedroom, the enchanted sword at your waist and the Helm on your head,” she retorted. “ _As_ I was saying, Alteration is the magic that works on how the world is built. I can turn stone to dust or quicksand – or strengthen it. I can turn unworked iron ore to silver and silver to gold, though I don’t like to do that as it’s too magicka-consuming to be worth it. I can harden my skin, lift and move objects without my hands, and cast light. I can make something lighter or heavier. The adepts and masters of the School can breathe water and walk on it, make their skin hard as ebony and paralyse something by locking its joints.”

            She nodded towards the College. “The earth is of a piece, the bones of the gods joined together like a skeleton. Generations of mages have lived in that place and strengthened its foundations. We don’t know precisely what caused the Great Collapse, though given the nature of the earthbones, the frequent eruptions of the Red Mountain in Morrowind echoed throughout the rest of Nirn. Winterhold lies on the earthbones of Kyne, so it was vulnerable to disruptions in the earth without magical reinforcement.”

            The Jarl grunted. “You make a plausible argument – but you _are_ from the Empire.”

            “I’m not expecting you to drop your sword and take up a staff, Jarl Korir. My job is to make sure you understand the College’s importance. Most of the faculty are refugees, either from the Empire, the Thalmor or both. Ancano is _my_ problem.” Callaina’s smile was grim. “I’m under oath to not raise arms against the Empire. Nothing was said about the Thalmor.”

            “Something’s going on in the College, isn’t it?” Korir finally asked.

            “Yes. We found something that… well, according to the materials I’ve acquired, may have been the reason why the Falmer attacked Saarthal,” she confirmed. “I was told by the Harbinger, a Valkyria of Kyne and a couple other people that I had to be here or we’re all screwed. The Psijic Order, the Altmer equivalent of the Greybeards and sworn enemy of the Thalmor, are getting involved for some reason. Maybe it’s because Winterhold lies at a magical nexus, where the bones of Kyne meet the bones of Shor. You are the Jarl of a very sacred, very magical place, Korir. Instead of feeling sorry for yourself and blaming the College for something it didn’t do, you should step up and take responsibility – or step aside and let someone who can take charge.”

            Callaina turned away. “I’m going to have words with Nelacar and the guards. They should have supported me out there. I survived because there’s a lot of hiding places.”

            “We have five guards for the whole Hold,” Korir admitted sourly. “Sigdrifa took most of them.”

            She muttered something in Orcish. Great language for swearing. “Would an apprentice from the College be welcome in the guard? Onmund wants to be a battlemage and he worships Talos.”

            “No true Nord should meddle in magic.”

            “I know for a fact there’s a magical tradition amongst the Nords. It’s called the Clever Craft. Saarthal is alive with magic and you can’t get much more Nordic than Ysgramor’s first home in Skyrim.” Callaina smiled wryly. “My first magical teacher Esbern trained me in it and I still use Old Atmoran to trigger my more powerful spells. I’m fairly certain Eorlund Grey-Mane is a wonder-smith and _that_ , from my limited observation, requires a keen knowledge of what the College calls Alteration and Enchanting.”

            Korir blinked. “You speak Old Atmoran?”

            “For your information, I speak Old Colovian, Old Atmoran and Akaviri as my native tongues, though the latter’s a bit rusty. I’m fluent in Middle Breton and the trade dialect of Morrowind, can hold a basic conversation in Altmer and Yokudan, ask where the jakes and tavern are in Khajiiti and swear in Orcish.” Callaina smirked. “Though apparently I need to work on my gutturals in the last.”

            Korir rubbed his face tiredly. “I’ll think on what you said. Where’s the dead dragon?”

            “Outside. Can you… bury him?” Callaina looked away. “I didn’t want to fight him and he attacked because he’s more scared of Alduin than me.”

            “Dragons feel fear?”

            “Yes.” She met the Jarl’s eyes. “There’s even dragons who joined with humanity and taught them Shouts because they wanted to be free of the World-Eater’s tyranny. Paarthurnax and Teyfunvahzah were the two I know of, and the former even came down from his roost when I was getting chased by bears.”

            Korir stared at her. “You… were… chased by bears?”

            “Up a tree. My mother and Paarthurnax came to save me after I Shouted for help.”

            The Jarl burst out laughing. “The mighty Dragonborn’s scared of bears!”

            “Have you seen cave bears? They’re bloody huge!”

            “Pfft. Snow bears are twice as big.”

            “This is not making me feel better.” Callaina shuddered. “I’m heading over to the College. I should see you in a few days, Jarl Korir. Just… be open to talking to them, please.”

            “I’ll think on it. Talos with you.”

            “And you.”


	24. The Hall of Elements

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for fantastic racism and mentions of death, violence, genocide and religious persecution. Again playing around with the mages’ questline because Callaina has a brain and doesn’t like being pushed around.

 

Callaina refrained from swearing her head off at Nelacar, instead trudging across the bridge in a supremely foul mood. Her magicka was drained, she was freezing her arse off and the lingering grief from killing the dragon haunted her. So she made her way to the Arcaneum, where the tireless Urag was cataloguing some books, and dropped the pile of tomes she’d collected on the desk with a little less care than she’d normally show.

            “You look like shit,” Urag observed with rough sympathy. “What took you so long?”

            “Three political crises, an assassination of a Jarl and personal issues,” Callaina said with a sigh. “Another dragon attacked Winterhold.”

            “Damn.” Urag shook his head. “You’ve read the books, I assume?”

            “Yes. _Night of Tears_ seems particularly salient. I think that damned sphere is the reason the Falmer lost their shit and attacked the Atmorans.”

            The Orc picked up the book and leafed through its pages with the ease of a true speed reader. “I’d say you’re right, but Tolfdir’s our resident expert on ancient Nord magic. That’s why he was investigating Saarthal – the Atmorans had unique ways of enchanting stone and we even found a piece of stalhrim there. Take the book to him and see what he thinks.”

            Callaina nodded. “Sure. By the way, Orthorn’s running around unsupervised but Fellglow Keep’s clear of necromancers. For now.”

            “Good. Nature will take care of our errant Apprentice.” Urag’s smile was not pleasant.

            “We live in hope. I’ll talk to you later but I want to get this book to Tolfdir, then see if I can borrow a bed for the night.” Callaina knuckled her eyes. “If you’re ever picked to be the saviour of the world, run the other way.”

            “I’ll keep that in mind.”

            Tolfdir was in the Hall of the Elements, where the sphere now hovered. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” he asked.

            “More like a bloody nuisance that got a lot of people killed according to this book I have,” Callaina said dryly. “Urag tells me you’re the resident Clever Craft expert.”

            The old man chuckled, shaking his head. “No. I specialise in ancient Atmoran enchanting. I know Sergius is the Enchanting expert here but the Nords used a unique means of something resembling Alteration to lay the foundations of both Saarthal and the College.”

            “Wasn’t Onmund trained in traditional Nord hunt magics?” Callaina asked.

            “Yes. Little cantrips and charms, barely worth the effort of learning.”

            “Well, the Clever Craft came from old Atmoran magic, so he might have a few insights you and I might miss.” Callaina studied her fingernails. “Besides, my first lessons were in the Clever Craft, though Esbern merged them with training in Alteration, Enchanting and Alchemy.”

            “I hadn’t considered that,” Tolfdir agreed. “I’ll go get him.”

            Predictably, Ancano decided to arrive. “I want you to come with me now,” he told Callaina imperiously.

            “And I want you to take a dive off the bridge, but we don’t always get what we want,” she replied mildly. “So fuck off and bother someone else.”

            “I am the Thalmor Advisor to the College!” Ancano snapped.

            “No, you’re a blackcoat in enemy territory,” Callaina replied sweetly. “You should go before Jarl Korir decides to have you blood-eagled.”

            “I have diplomatic status in the Empire,” Ancano countered, losing some of his urbanity.

            “This isn’t the Empire. So fuck off before I demonstrate my gift for transmutation.”

            Lightning crackled across his fingers and Callaina grinned savagely. One good Shout would turn this arsehole into ice.

            “I strongly advise against magic in the presence of the Eye of Magnus,” Tolfdir advised dryly. “As interesting as a demonstration of the Thu’um would be.”

            Ancano scowled and stormed off. Callaina shook her head in disgust. “Thalmor bastard.”

            “Yes. And you’re not supposed to threaten violence in the College,” Tolfdir chided mildly.

            J’zargo stuck his head into the Hall. “Korli, J’zargo has been told by the Arch-Mage that there is a member of the Psijic Order here to see you in his quarters.”

            “This one thanks you,” she responded automatically in Khajiiti.

            His ears perked up. “You speak the tongue of the fairest people?”

            “Enough to find the nearest public privy and tavern,” Callaina said dryly. “Politely, anyway. My knowledge of the choicer language is a bit more extensive because the fairest of races believe taxes don’t apply to them.”

            J’zargo snickered. “’A taxman is a thief with governmental approval’.”

            “Yeah, heard that one before. Better not keep this Psijic waiting. If they’ve brought themselves from their island, the situation must be bad.”

            “J’zargo, can you examine the Eye for me?” Tolfdir asked. “Khajiit see the world differently to humans, so you might perceive something I don’t.”

            “Certainly.” J’zargo went to take a closer look at the Eye. Callaina would prefer it was far, far away.

            She climbed the stairs to the Arch-Mage’s palatial quarters. Sweet Kynareth but was she exhausted. Savos was there, looking troubled, and Quaranir was admiring the garden. “A magnificent effort,” he observed

            “It was Taveda’s work,” Savos said. “She always had a knack for botany.”

            “Yes. Gadrith enjoyed his time as an advisor here when she was Arch-Mage.” Quaranir sighed. “But the rise of the Thalmor changed things for our people.”

            “The first people the Thalmor conquered were their own,” Callaina agreed.

            “Yes.” The world turned monochrome and the Psijic monk turned to face her. “I have only a little time, Callaina. The Eye is distorting the webs of time and even the earthbones. It needs to be dealt with.”

            “If you have any ideas, I’d love to hear it,” she said.

            “You need to speak to the Augur of Dunlain in the Middens.” The Altmer’s green-gold eyes were frustrated. “I can’t tell you more than that and there’s a few of my brethren who’d argue I’ve interfered too much already.”

            “I’m guessing they suffer from a bad case of inter-rectal cranial insertion,” she said dryly.

            The Psijic paused for a moment, translated what she said, and then unexpectedly laughed. “The next time I speak to the Ritemaster, I’ll use that phrase.”

            “Can you tell me anything about Labyrinthian? I know there’s a connection between this Eye and that place.”

            “How-?”

            “The Harbinger of the Companions has prescience concerning dangers to Skyrim. He gave me the heads up.”

            “Ah. I forget the Nords have their own native magics and even occasionally use them. Savos knows something of the Labyrinthian.” Quaranir chuckled. “I have to leave. Be careful of Ancano.”

            “I will. Thanks.”

            The world returned to normal and Quaranir was gone. Savos blinked. “What in Azura’s name…?”

            Callaina fixed the Arch-Mage with a steely glare. “Labyrinthian. Now.”

            “I, what?” Savos avoided her gaze.

            “The Labyrinthian’s involved in this shitstorm somehow, Savos. You know something on the place. I need some bloody answers before the Eye kills us all.”

            The Arch-Mage sighed. “Let me give you some things, Callaina. It will be easier for you to go there and see for yourself than for me to tell you.”

            He walked over to a chest and pulled out a sapphire-set silver circlet and a heavy iron torc. “Take these to Labyrinthian,” he told her. “I-I can’t.”

            She took the items. “Why not?”

            “We all have failures and this isn’t one I’d like to revisit.” Savos turned away, his shoulders slumping. “Azura’s Prophecy guide you, Dragonborn.”

            She took the dismissal and left the Arch-Mage’s quarters. Tolfdir was still in the Hall of Elements, marvelling over the Eye with Onmund. Callaina approached them. “Anything new?”

            “It’s not Atmoran,” Onmund said confidently. “My father’s harpoon dates back to the Return and the magic on it is nothing compared to this. But it feels like the foundations of the College and the ruins of Saarthal.”

            “Well, if the Atmoran shamans were trying to draw on its magicka…” Callaina pinched the bridge of her nose. Gods but she was exhausted. “Tolfdir, who’s the Augur of Dunlain? He’s apparently got some answers.”

            The Alteration expert raised an eyebrow. “He was once, it’s said, a student who became something… else. I’ve spoken to him. Incredible insights into magicka and the earthbones. He’s in the Middens. Give him a hello from me, will you?”

            “Sure. Talos dammit, I want to sleep. But if I do that…” Callaina sighed. “No rest for the wicked. Or the Dragonborn. Tolfdir, don’t fuck with the Eye. It’s distorting the temporal webs and earthbones. Winterhold’s located on the intersection between the bones of Kyne and Shor.”

            Tolfdir went pale. “By the Nine…”

            “Yes. One wrong move and we could crack the world like an egg.” She cursed under her breath. “I’m getting every stamina potion I can find and looking for this Augur. Then I’m off to Labyrinthian.”

            Onmund frowned. “I’m coming with you.”

            “No, you’re not. As I understand it, you’re an Apprentice and can’t go off on College missions alone.” Callaina smiled wearily at him. “Besides, I’d appreciate it if you could go speak to Jarl Korir. Winterhold has a lack of guards and you’re a battlemage.”

            The youth’s eyes brightened. “You think he’ll listen?”

            “Given you’re more Nord than me, he might.”

            Onmund grinned and nodded, leaving the Hall. She gave Tolfdir a brief nod of her own. “Keep Ancano away from this. If he gets any bright ideas, he’ll achieve the Thalmor’s goals all on his own.”

            The old mage nodded. “I will. Talos with you, Korli.”

            “And you, Tolfdir.”

…

She returned to chaos, bloodshed and a dead Arch-Mage with Ancano locking everyone out of the Hall with the power of the Eye. Faralda, Onmund and Arniel bore signs of battle on them while Tolfdir was actually praying. Mirabelle threw her a startled glance. “Dragonborn, what’s going on?”

            “Ancano’s going to destroy the world if we don’t stop him,” she said grimly. “I need J’zargo. If he’s half as good as he claims, he can help me in Labyrinthian.”

            “J’zargo is an expert at Destruction,” the Khajiit assured her.

            “Good. Alright, I’m going to Whiterun and picking up a Companion or two. Kodlak sent me here, so he can give me some muscle. Whatever the hell’s at Labyrinthian is bad enough that Savos wouldn’t speak of it, just gave me a torc and a circlet.”

            “Lorkhan’s heart,” the Master Wizard breathed. “You look like death warmed over.”

            “Time’s running short. I’ll nap on the carriage.” Callaina sighed and looked over at Savos. “Good luck.”

            “And you.” Her hands glowed with energy. “We’ll see if we can stop him-“

            White light exploded and Callaina fell into blackness.


	25. No Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for violence, fantastic racism and mentions of death, torture and genocide. Another reminder – read ‘The Winter War’ for more details on things referenced in this chapter, as I’ve divided the narrative into two stories to avoid confusing myself and letting other characters shine.

 

“J’zargo has observed that the Master Wizard was a better administrator than mage.”

            “Callaina has observed the same thing,” the Dragonborn agreed as they trudged along the road to Whiterun, having dodged Windhelm. She didn’t have the time to report to her kin and even less so the inclination. “I _warned_ them. Blessed bloody gods, I _warned_ them!”

            The Khajiit’s ears flattened in consternation. “J’zargo cannot speak for others, only for himself. To J’zargo, you were an unimpressive mage, one who focused on what he deemed little magics. J’zargo would have ignored your words if he were a senior mage at the College.”

            “Little magics at the right time have toppled kings,” Callaina observed with a sigh. “My only real magical talent is Alteration. Otherwise, like Mirabelle, I am a better administrator than mage.”

            “J’zargo saw what you did to the dragon,” the cat-man said dryly. “J’zargo won’t look down at Alteration again.”

            “Heh, thanks. Destruction’s the easiest of the schools – you’re just pulling raw magicka from Aetherius and converting it into relatively simple elemental energy. Alteration is based on how the world is built – and convincing it to be something else.” They passed Morvunskar. “You’ve had Synodic training, right?”

            “And Whispers,” the Khajiit admitted easily. “But it is always about politics with the Cyrodiil mages.”

            “Tell me about it,” Callaina agreed sourly. “I was training for Adept at the Synod when they kicked me out for becoming too good, too fast, and being the granddaughter of a traitor.”

            J’zargo sighed heavily. “This is a grief not unknown to J’zargo. If J’zargo isn’t better as a mage, he is more charming and so others grow jealous.”

            “Humility’s definitely a virtue that no one can accuse you of having,” Callaina said wryly.

            “J’zargo doesn’t believe in false humility.” He looked sidelong at Callaina. “Do you need to rest?”

            “I’ll do so in Whiterun,” she promised. “Time’s of an essence now. Ancano, once he figures out the Eye, will crack the world like an egg.”

            They were skirting the edges of the tundra and instinctively, Callaina helped herself to the jazbay, creep cluster and dragon’s tongue growing on the side of the road. Colette’s magic had done the best it could – despite her whining, the woman was truly a master of Restoration – and only time could do the rest. Time they really didn’t have.

            “A pity there was no carriage,” J’zargo sighed.

            “Yeah.”

            They reached Mixwater Mill and took the road to Whiterun. A pair of wolves provided an interruption and pelts. Farkas had drilled into her never to disrespect the gifts of Kynareth and taught her the basics of skinning an animal.

            Once they were past the waterfall, the signs of Stormcloak patrols increased. The soldiers, mostly Palers or Eastmarchers judging by the heavy bones and pale skins, sneered at the pair of them but didn’t interfere. Callaina was too bruised and weary to care but J’zargo’s tail was twitching, a sign of agitation in Khajiit.

            “Temper,” she advised softly in his own language.

            “J’zargo is trying to save these idiots and they look down at him,” the Khajiit muttered.

            “This one is the Dovahkiin. She will save people who hate her, even want her dead, from the World-Eater,” she pointed out. “Because they aren’t all of the world.”

            He sighed. “It is hard.”

            “I know.”

            At Valtheim Towers, a bearded Eastmarcher stopped them. “What’s your business in Whiterun?” he demanded.

            “We need to speak to the Companions,” Callaina said, reaching into her satchel. “I have a travel writ.”

            “Does the Khajiit have one?” he asked with a sneer.

            “No, but if you lay a finger on the best battlemage from the College of Winterhold, I’ll Shout you head over arse,” she retorted.

            “They’re teaching Imperials the Thu’um now?” he asked sceptically.

            “No. I’ve been learning on my own. And I’m a Bruma Nord, not an Imperial.” She handed over the paper with Ulfric’s official seal on it.

            He tossed it aside. “It isn’t Ulfric’s handwriting.”

            “And you’re so familiar with the Jarl of Windhelm that you know his handwriting?” she asked acidly. “What’s your name and rank, soldier?”

            “I am Ulfdir the Mighty,” he said with a puffed-out chest. “As commander of the Valtheim garrison, I’m taking you two into custody as likely spies.”

            Callaina was too tired and sore for this shit. She opened her mouth and – as promised – Shouted him head over arse by using “FUS.” Ulfdir’s friends watched him fly back and hit the road with a thud.

            She collected her travel writ. “Would anyone else like to discuss my travelling credentials?”

            “You’re… the Dragonborn?” one of the younger Stormcloaks asked. “The Stormsword’s daughter they say is a Septim?”

            “Yes and yes,” Callaina said with a sigh. “The evil Emperor Titus Mede made me swear an unbreakable oath on the corpse of my ancestor to never raise arms against the Empire, that’s why I’m focusing on the dragons and a couple other, ah, crises.”

            “I heard about that,” one of the others admitted. “You, uh, really don’t look like a Dragonborn.”

            “Half of my self-defence is looking like an ordinary traveller,” she told him. “I’m already on the Empire’s shit list. Running around in steel plate or silk mage robes would just scream, ‘Here I am, please kill me!’ Not to mention the fact I _prefer_ to be left alone.”

            The concept of defensive anonymity went flying over the Stormcloak’s head judging by his expression. Callaina honestly didn’t give a shit. “Can we go now?” she asked testily.

            “Uh, yes, of course.” The Stormcloak saluted fist to chest. “Apologies, Dragonborn. Before the war Ulfdir was the village idiot.”

            “That explains a lot,” J’zargo observed dryly.

            The Stormcloaks let them pass and Callaina was relieved to see those bloody towers fall behind her. “Kynareth save me from provincial idiots,” she said fervently.

            “J’zargo doubted you were a Nord,” the Khajiit finally said. “After _that_ , J’zargo believes.”

            “Thanks, I think,” she said ruefully. “Let’s go. I think I need another healing potion.”

…

Farkas met them just under the Ritual Stone, his blade red with blood. “I heard your Shout and was coming,” he said worriedly. “Are you alright?”

            “Petty border guard,” she said. “And no.”

            He wiped off his greatsword and sheathed it. “You used the one Word. Like punching, right?”

            “Yes. He’s going to feel like a mammoth stepped on him but he’s not dead,” she assured Farkas. “I didn’t have the time for his bullshit.”

            “You’re hurt,” the werewolf growled.

            “Yes,” she agreed. “Can we just get to Jorrvaskr? Oh, this is J’zargo. He’s with me on the Winterhold thing.”

            “There’s a Thalmor trying to end the world and the Dragonborn is helping J’zargo stop him,” the Khajiit informed Farkas.

            “Uh huh.” Farkas wrapped a meaty arm around Callaina’s waist both possessively and protectively. “Come on. Jorrvaskr’s a bit lean at the moment but we can probably help.”

            It was a relief to lean on someone else’s strength. “How’s everyone?” she asked as they trudged along.

            “Vilkas got attacked by the Silver Hand,” he growled. “You know how you said Delphine was a Blade?”

            “Yes… Oh shit, she didn’t.”

            “She sicced the Silver Hand onto us because you were supposed to rely on the Blades,” he confirmed. “Ria killed her.”

            “Is Vilkas okay?” Callaina wasn’t surprised at the depths of Delphine’s ruthlessness.

            “He’ll live. He was taking Ria on her Proving before she went back to Cyrodiil. She passed.”

            Callaina sighed. “I’m not surprised. But she needs to get home soon.”

            “Yes. Irkand killed another one of her family – Gaius Maro?”

            “Elder or Younger?” Callaina asked, now alarmed.

            “Uh, think he was her half-brother.”

            “Younger.” Her exhaustion was shoved aside. “Farkas, do you know what this means?”

            “Yeah. Your uncle’s murdering scum and we should have killed him.” His arm tightened around her waist. “Sorry, but he is.”

            “He’s a tool,” she said sourly. “Farkas, the Brotherhood’s attacking the Mede dynasty. Vittoria Vici, Gaius the Younger – which will distract Gaius the Elder from protecting his father Titus Mede, who will be coming here to take personal command of the Legion since Tullius is losing.”

            “Which will end in the Emperor’s death,” J’zargo, who’d been listening, said grimly. “J’zargo doesn’t care about the Empire but if Cyrodiil falls, the Dominion will conquer it.”

            They were near Honningbrew Meadery by now. “Ria’s a Companion. Once we get Vilkas up and about, we’ll have him take her to Pale Pass.”

            “J’zargo knows healing spells,” the mage said. “J’zargo will expect a favour from the Companions in return.”

            “Anything,” Farkas said simply. “He’s my brother.”

            “We are going to Labyrinthian to find something which will defeat the Thalmor,” Callaina explained with a sigh. “It’s full of draugr. I – we – need your help, love.”

            “Of course,” was his simple reply. “But first you’re seeing Danica at the Temple. Vilkas is half-healed so J’zargo can patch him up. We heal fast.”

            “Good,” J’zargo observed. “This one would prefer muscle between him and the draugr.”

            They went past Pelagia Farm, Maiden-Loom Manor and the stables. Colette’s healing magic had run out by now and Callaina was feeling twice as bad. That explosion or whatever it was had left her battered and rattled.

            Farkas wound up carrying her into the Temple of Kynareth when her legs gave out under the dead Gildergreen tree. Danica promptly abandoned her prayers and examined Callaina minutely, lips tight with worry. “You should rest for a few days,” the priestess advised.

            “I don’t have a few days,” Callaina pointed out. “I’m on a time-critical mission.”

            “Unless Alduin is wherever you’re going, you can spare at least a day,” Danica retorted. “Your… I don’t know how to describe it. The part of your body that channels magicka is overloaded, Callaina. You are a spellsword, aye?”

            “…Sort of.”

            “Well, it is part of your combat style to use magic and I wouldn’t advise that at the moment until you’re healed.”

            “Can I use the Thu’um?” Callaina asked.

            “…I don’t know. But you should rest.” Danica sighed. “A little care now will save you grief in the future.”

            “I can spare a night’s sleep, no more,” she decided. “Time is more critical than you understand, Priestess.”

            Danica threw up her hands. “I’m only the healer! What do I know?”

            “I’ll make sure she rests,” Farkas promised, picking Callaina up from the stone bench. “But it’s pretty bad, Danica. You should pray to Kynareth.”

            “I might as well,” Danica agreed dryly, “As the Dragonborn isn’t minded to listen to reason.”

            Callaina ignored her, instead resting her head against Farkas’ shoulder. “Let’s go back to Jorrvaskr,” she murmured.

            He made a polite farewell and obeyed, soon ensconcing her in his bedroom. Callaina inhaled the musky scent of a male in his prime that clung to the furs and allowed herself to relax a little. In the room across the hall she could hear Vilkas bitching at the unimpressed J’zargo. “What’s bothering you?” she asked Farkas.

            “You should rest,” he said, plumping the pillow.

            “Not until you tell me what’s going on.”

            The werewolf heaved a sigh… and then the words spilled out about how Kodlak wanted him to hunt down the Glenmoril Coven that cursed the Circle with lycanthropy and bring back their heads for a cure. The witches were Hagravens, unnatural mixtures of bird and woman, but Farkas couldn’t find a way to make himself kill a group of old women.

            “Why in the name of the Eight and One would Kodlak set you such a… dishonourable task?” Callaina finally asked. Daedra-worshippers or not, sending a werewolf against a group of Hagravens was a pretty one-sided battle.

            “Because the Harbinger needs to know what dishonour is in order to guide the Companions to honour,” Farkas said unhappily. “He wants me to be Harbinger.”

            “The last time I heard such a crock of shit was when my grandfather declared himself the rightful Emperor of Tamriel,” Callaina said disgustedly.

            Farkas hung his head. “I wouldn’t make a good Harbinger.”

            “I meant the other bit,” Callaina assured him. “A good counsellor has compassion, empathy and a basic sense of decency. That’s how I see the Harbinger – and I’m bloody ready to punch Kodlak in the face, old sick man or not, for coming up with such bullshit.”

            “He said you were a nithing and a coward,” Farkas said softly. “You’d be Harbinger because you know what dishonour is if you’d joined us.”

            She knew that a nithing was the worst thing a Nord could be called – it meant ‘nothing’, implying that the person had no sense of honour, decency or morals. Kodlak, she decided, didn’t know shit.

            “By the time I was fourteen, I saw most of the people I know die,” she said softly. “Die horrific deaths that I didn’t even know were possible until I was forced to watch them. I was threatened with a similar death if I didn’t make a particular oath at a particular place on a particular day. I made that oath and was left alone for the most part, though I was always watched, always shunted to the most godsforsaken parts of the Empire so that if I should die, Titus Mede II could claim he had no hand in my death. Aside from my grandfather and a few cousins and the Blades, none of my family faced the consequences of their rebellion.”

            Callaina sighed. “I’m a broken blade, Farkas. But the broken blade can still stab the enemy. I won’t cast aspersions on Kodlak’s character because there’s no bloody point. He’s likely to die the straw death even if his soul is cleansed.”

            Farkas’ heavy shoulders bowed further. “If I don’t do this soon, he’ll die.”

            “Why just you? Vilkas wants the cure just as bad.”

            “I… got the feeling it’s gotta be me. Even if Vilkas wasn’t injured, he has to get Ria to safety.”

            Callaina chewed her bottom lip. She wished she could help more. “So approach the coven openly and if they refuse to make a cure, fight them. Hagravens are witches, so there’ll be magic spells.”

            “Old women with fireballs,” the werewolf admitted.

            “So I’ll make you a few lavender and tundra cotton tonics to give you resistance to magic,” Callaina offered. “Alchemy doesn’t use magic after all – well it does, but it’s the magic of the world, not the magic within.”

            “After the Winterhold business,” Farkas said quietly. “You went there because the Companions asked it of you. Our business can wait until this Thalmor’s dead.”

            “Thank you,” she sighed. “I don’t deserve you, you know that?”

            “Funny,” Farkas said as he leaned over to kiss her forehead. “I was thinkin’ the same thing about you.”


	26. Labyrinthian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death and violence. Head-canon for Dragonborn possessing a certain amount of retrocognition – the ability to look into the past. Also going AU for the Staff of Magnus quest because hey, Dragonborn versus Dragon Priest!

 

She slept for about six hours before the need to deal with Ancano awoke her. Farkas twitched and growled in the same bed, his own sleep uneasy because of the beast blood and the moral quandary facing him, and looked only too happy to leave Jorrvaskr as dawn painted the sky lavender and rose-gold. Only J’zargo was discontent but the Khajiit knew better than to complain. They needed to reach Labyrinthian urgently.

            Shalidor’s maze-tomb was located in the rocky part of Morthal, a Hold that was ice-bog, snow-mountain and desperately poor. Callaina cursed the fact she didn’t have time to divert to Ustengrav for that fucking horn of the Greybeards; perhaps she could send J’zargo back with the… whatever… they needed here and stay. But no. Her combat style was reliant on magic and the part of her body which dealt with that was damaged. Shit.

            First challenge – ice trolls, cave trolls’ uglier white cousins. Farkas collected the pelts as they made excellent cloaks, stuffing them into a cache near the entrance. The hides were a bit scorched because J’zargo made constant use of his fire spells. He might be an egotistical arse at times but, at least in Destruction, he lived up to his boasts.

            The ceremonial door was opened by the torc as a handle. Savos had sealed this place – why?

            The visions that followed explained _exactly_ why. Foolhardy apprentices looking for power and getting killed by a dragon skeleton that was… empty. Callaina sensed no soul or presence and Farkas made short work of it despite its size. The draugr were old enemies and she hacked them apart with the Sword of the Septims. Alchemy ingredients went into her pack. She had a feeling she’d be relying on them for a while if her magic was unavailable to her.

            The later draugr were more wraiths and a lot nastier. Their weapons were enchanted in a crude manner; J’zargo collected an example of each. Then a guttural voice spoke, addressing J’zargo of all damned people as Savos; it spoke in Dovahzul.

            It spiralled in and out, visions flickering in Callaina’s mind as she saw Savos’ ill-fated journey to the depths of the tomb. Finally, finally, the voice spoke Tamriel’s common dialect, voicing its displeasure. Guttural language? You couldn’t get more guttural than Dovahzul.

            “He thinks you’re Savos,” Farkas observed after killing another draugr-wraith.

            “Given that the Savos who came here was a glory-hunting greedy bastard who abandoned his friends…” Callaina said slowly. “J’zargo’s not like that.”

            The Khajiit’s ears flattened. “J’zargo could be.”

            “So don’t be,” Farkas said simply.

            Callaina sighed. “Let’s go. Whoever this arsehole is – and given this was a Dragon Cult centre, I’m guessing either dovah or priest – we need to deal with him.”

            They finally reached the final door where the vision of Savos binding his friends to hold whatever lay behind them played out. “Am I only the one seeing this?” Callaina asked, slumping against the wall.

            “Seeing what?” J’zargo asked.

            “Guess I am,” she muttered. “Be careful – whatever’s behind that door required Aren to bind his last two friends to keeping it trapped.”

            J’zargo downed a magicka regeneration potion and Farkas readied his greatsword. “Let’s do this then.”

            It was Morokei the Dragon Priest. “You...you are not Aren, are you? Has he sent you in his place?” he rasped as he floated, rotting and withered, within the bounds of the wards set by the enthralled ghosts.

            “My name is Kah-Lah-Nah, the Last Dovahkiin,” Callaina responded flatly in Dovahzul. “You have a thing I need. Surrender it and you will be unbound from the tortured flesh you are trapped in.”

            Morokei’s twisted features shifted into something resembling awe. “You are as the Traitor Miraak?”

            “No,” Callaina informed him. “I am no traitor.”

            “We should be fighting it,” J’zargo muttered.

            “The Cult is gone,” Callaina continued. “Al-Du-In has risen again and it is my place, as decided by Bormahu, to punish him for his transgressions and pahlok. I have, at the moment, no quarrel with you.”

            “Aren sent you.”

            “He sent me because he knew the thing you have will stop a mer from breaking apart the bones of the world,” Callaina confirmed. “We are both Nords, Morokei. It is our place to keep the world together.”

            “Unbind me,” the Dragon Priest said. “And you may have your staff.”

            “Kill the apprentices, Farkas,” she said in Tamrielic. “J’zargo, be ready with fire spells in case he decides to attack.”

            “…Acquire-Cat?” the Dragon Priest asked in confusion. “That is a strange name for one with the spirit of a grohiik.”

            “In Atmoran, my name means wolf,” Farkas growled. “Don’t try anything. I’ve killed dragons with Korli and some old draugr won’t be too difficult.”

            “Dragonish is a strange language,” J’zargo observed as he readied twin Firebolts.

            The ghostly Apprentices were swiftly dispatched, their attention focused on Morokei, and the Priest laughed. “It is good to be free,” he rasped.

            “The thing,” Callaina reminded him.

            Morokei threw an elaborate staff – the Staff of Magnus – and Callaina caught it. “J’zargo, this is yours,” she told the cat-man.

            “Why?” he asked in some confusion.

            “Because you can use magic and I can’t,” she pointed out. “Staffs still require some measure of magicka to be useful.”

            The Khajiit accepted the Staff. “Very well.”

            Morokei looked at her consideringly. “You are so powerful, Dovahkiin, that you give the artefacts of the gods to your servants?”

            She smiled thinly. “Not really. Just because dovahhe are greedy hoarding bastards doesn’t mean I have to act like one. Besides, J’zargo is an ally, not a servant. Farkas is my mate.”

            The draugr sighed. “You are a Jill. Al-Du-In drove them all away.”

            “Well, this one’s going to kick his scaly tail back to Aetherius,” she promised. “So, uh, what now? We’ve killed all your wraiths and whatnot.”

            “Remove my mask,” Morokei said. “With that, I will be free to go… wherever I will go.”

            Callaina walked across the arch to where the Priest hovered. “You served the dovahhe better than they deserved,” she told him. “I hope you go to Sovngarde – but be wary. The World-Eater feasts on souls caught in his mists.”

            “You are kind, Kah-Lah-Nah.” Morokei bowed his head and feeling static against her skin, Callaina removed the blue-toned mask.

            “Nox hi,” Morokei said as he… turned into ashes. “Thank you.”

            She surprised herself by bursting into tears. The Dragon Priests had been cruel and terrible, yes, but they’d also been men loyal to uncaring god-kings. Had they volunteered to serve in the hopes of being protected from Alduin? She guessed she’d never know.

            “In the Dovahzul, Morokei means ‘glorious’,” she said as she turned back to the other two. “In the end, I think he lived up to his name.”

            J’zargo sighed, hefting the Staff of Magnus. “J’zargo is honoured he is trusted with this, Dragonborn.”

            “As I said, my magicka’s damaged at the moment. You’re the best one to handle this mess.” She sighed herself. “Let’s go.”

            A Thalmor agent interrupted them at the exit, when they were laden down with the loot of Morokei’s burial goods. “Callaina,” he greeted civilly. “You don’t have to do this. You could release us all from the prison of flesh. Please.”

            She found her lips peeling back in a snarl. “Nurancar the Younger.”

            The Altmer, son of Elenwen, nodded cordially. “Yes. You remember me.”

            “I also remember what your family did to mine,” she said flatly.

            “Mother and Father were… harsh,” he agreed. “Just listen to me. This is our one chance to unbind the Time-Dragon and return to primordial divinity painlessly. You, me, the Nord, the Khajiit – all gods once more at bliss with the one. Lorkhan’s sin undone. Descendant of Talos, Dragonborn. Your very blood and nature are bound into the earthbones. You could unbind them with the Eye of Magnus.”

            He was persuasive and she was exhausted. Everything could just… end. No Alduin, no Empire, no pain and grief.

            No Farkas. No brothers she’d just found. No morning cup of tea when the day was still quiet and fresh.

            Unbidden, her magicka rose up as she dropped the mask of Morokei, blue-green light gathered in her cupped hands. “No,” she said just before tossing a Transmute spell at the mer.

            His face showed his shock just before it melted, bones and blood turned to acid.

            “’The infinite possibilities, breaking the sky, swallowing space, dancing with time, setting ice on fire, believing the unreal may become real. You must learn the rules of the cosmos and break them’,” Callaina said, quoting from _Breathing Water_ , the Dunmer textbook on Alteration. “Just because you Thalmor want to step off the Wheel doesn’t give you the right to drag the rest of us along.”

            She staggered and leaned against a throne. “He was one of those who purged Bruma,” she gasped. “What I did…”

            “Was impressive,” J’zargo observed calmly. “And likely better than he deserved.”

            Farkas stared at the pool of _something_ that had been a young Altmer. “I’m kinda glad you like me,” he said. “If that’s what you do to those you hate.”

            Callaina shuddered, feeling nauseous. “Let’s go. Farkas, are you coming with us to Winterhold? I’m catching the carriage from Morthal to Dawnstar, then the boat to the College.”

            “Works for me,” he said. “Companions sent you there. Companion should be there to see it finished.”

            She nodded in gratitude. It was going to be a long trip back as she wrestled with the fact that she was no better than theThalmor.


	27. The Eye of Magnus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism.

 

The slog to Morthal was rotten. Icy bog and wind combined to make the path truly hellish. Callaina almost detoured to Ustengrav, if only for a few hours, but instead chose otherwise. Time was running out and she really didn’t want to think of her sacred quest to defeat Alduin now, not when she’d deliberately – albeit unconsciously – turned an Altmer’s bones and blood to acid.

            She caressed the blue-tinted metal – quicksilver, if she wasn’t mistaken – of Morokei’s mask. The Dragon Priest had died with grace unexpected of his kind, glad to be free from prison. Who knew what other Dragon Priests lingered in the forgotten corners of  Skyrim? Or worse yet this traitor – Miraak. The name was vaguely familiar.

            They just made it to the carriage, Callaina wedged between J’zargo and Farkas. She’d forgotten the last time she’d eaten and only accepted a bit of smoked salmon from Farkas because he gave her a pleading look. It was rubbery and unpalatable but she forced it down her throat.

            The carriage rolled along until it met another Stormcloak checkpoint. “Business?” asked a tall, sinewy woman with flaming red hair.

            “We’re going to Winterhold,” Farkas informed her.

            Her green eyes widened. “Be careful. There’s some witchery going on. I saw it from Dawnstar.”

            “That’s why we’re going there,” Callaina said grimly, lowering her hood. “Who’s your commander?”

            “Arrald Frozen-Heart but Galmar’s running the show,” she reported. “If you don’t mind me asking, are you kin to the Kreathling Jarls? You look very much like the Stormsword.”

            “She’s my mother,” Callaina admitted. “I’m Korli Broken-Blade.”

            “Dragonborn!” The woman bowed slightly. “Did you require anything from us?”

            “If you have a dedicated boatman who’s not afraid of witchery, I’d appreciate it,” Callaina said, rubbing her brow. Her head was killing her. “And get your chaplain to lead some prayers to Talos. That witchery is Thalmor and the Stormcrown needs all the strength He can get to hold it off.”

            “I will,” she vowed. “Do the gods really need the prayers of men?”

            “Yes. Belief strengthens reality and the Thalmor want to end it.” Callaina sighed. “Also, please send a message to Ulfric telling them that Nurancar the Younger’s a puddle in the Labyrinthian. He’ll know who that is and it might just make his day.”

            “I will. My name is Sjofn Silver-Shield.”

            “The big guy’s Farkas of the Companions and the Khajiit J’zargo of the College.”

            “Honoured to meet you all.” Sjofn bowed again. “I’ll see if we’ve got any boatmen here. Failing that, we can let you use the horse relay to Dawnstar.”

            They dismounted from the carriage, that was allowed to continue on, and warmed themselves in the tent. “That one had better manners than Ulfdir the Mighty,” J’zargo observed.

            “Maybe Ulfdir getting set on his arse with Unrelenting Force taught the others some manners,” Callaina said with a sigh.

            Sjofn appeared with a stocky, vaguely familiar Nord with a sailor’s roughened complexion. “This is Ulfgar Broken-Tusk of Dawnstar,” she said. “His clan maintains several boats.”

            “Broken-Tusk? You are kin to Onmund, yes?” J’zargo asked.

            “He’s my little brother,” admitted the sailor.

            “Ah, then J’zargo notes you are the brother of a great mage,” the Khajiit said. “During the defence of Winterhold from the evil magic of the Thalmor Ancano, Onmund killed most of the evil spirits.”

            Ulfgar’s eyes widened. “Truly?”

            “Yes. And the senior mages consult him on the matter of Saarthal’s magic, because he is the resident expert on the Clever Craft. J’zargo didn’t even know Nords _had_ magic until Onmund showed him it.”

            “Huh.” Ulfgar looked impressed. “He picked up the Clever Craft like it was nothing but it wasn’t enough for him.”

            “He’s learning much more of the old Nordic magics from Master Tolfdir,” J’zargo continued silkily. “It is generally expected that when Tolfdir retires, Onmund will take his place as Master of Alteration. And that is a very powerful School. The Dragonborn here, who isn’t as good as Onmund at Alteration – though better than J’zargo, he is forced to admit – managed to turn a Thalmor’s bones and blood to acid. I can only imagine what Onmund will do when they make him a Journeyman.”

            Ulfgar’s jaw dropped. “Dear Talos!”

            “Talos had a very good battlemage. J’zargo, who has studied in many nations since leaving Elseweyr, believes that Onmund will be just as good.”

            “This one notes you’re laying it a bit thick,” Callaina murmured in Khajiit.

            “J’zargo can never lay it on thick enough for a Nord,” the cat-man retorted quietly.

            “I’ve seen Onmund in battle and he’s pretty good,” Callaina confirmed. “Can you or your clan get us to Winterhold? Your brother’s not just fighting for his life, he’s fighting to save the world.”

            Ulfgar’s shoulders squared. “I’ll let no brother of mine face Thalmor witchery alone! Broken-Tusk clan will go with you…?”

            “Korli Broken-Blade, the Dragonborn,” she replied simply.

            “So long as one Broken-Tusk remains, we will fight alongside you,” Ulfgar vowed fervently.

            “Then let’s go. I’m expecting the seas around Winterhold to be hellish.”

            “My clan could sail the waters of Oblivion and not lose a ship,” Ulfgar responded. “The sea-magic is in us and has been since we led Ysgramor from Atmora.”

…

The seas were abnormally calm by the time they got past Dawnstar and waiting them at the dock was Quaranir. “Hold it,” Callaina ordered as one of the Broken-Tusk clan – Ulfgar had raised everyone of fighting age in Dawnstar – reached for a harpoon. “He’s an ally.”

            “Callaina,” greeted Quaranir with a wry smile. “You have the Staff?”

            “J’zargo does,” the Khajiit observed.

            The Altmer’s green-gold eyes went distant and then he suddenly laughed. “Why not? It will give the Thalmor hives.”

            “Quaranir belongs to the Altmer equivalent of the Old Ways,” Callaina explained softly to the Broken-Tusks. “The Thalmor hate them because they know that the blackcoats are a perversion of what is truly sacred.”

            “The first nation the Thalmor conquered was their own,” Quaranir agreed sadly. “My grandfather was the first martyr in the rebellion against them.”

            “The Tamusen,” Callaina observed. “They still exist?”

            “Yes. And when the time for war comes, they will be ready.” Quaranir turned in a swirl of white and maroon robes. “Time is of the essence.”

            They trudged up the path to Winterhold. The College mages were gathered at the foot of the bridge, most of them bandaged and bleeding. “Praise the Nine you’re here,” Tolfdir told them wearily. “We’ve lost Arniel and Nirya.”

            “I’m sorry,” Callaina sighed. “J’zargo, all I know about the Staff is that it can ‘close the Eye’. Outside of Faralda, you’re the one who understands the manipulation of raw magicka the best.”

            The Khajiit hefted the Staff again. “J’zargo is ready.”

            “Good.” She looked over her shoulder. “Where in Kynareth’s name is everyone?”

            “Whistling Mine,” Onmund responded. “Jarl Korir actually listened to me and got everyone out.”

            “Praise Talos for minor miracles,” Callaina said dryly. “Farkas-?”

            “Staying with you,” was his response. “I’d rather be with you at the end of the world than not.”

            “I don’t deserve you,” Callaina said, eyes closing. “Alright – J’zargo takes point. I want everyone feeding him power. Farkas, you deal with any wraiths or other threats. Ulfgar, I want your clan at Whistling Mine. Get everyone there praying to Talos.”

            “Yes, Dragonborn,” the sailor said. “Onmund – we’re proud of you.”

            The young Nord mage smiled, blinking rapidly. “Thank you.”

            “Thank your cat friend. He told us about how you’re the best battlemage since Talos’ own.” Ulfgar raised his harpoon in salute before the Broken-Tusks headed for the mine.

            “J’zargo told them a few things. Your kin are easily impressed,” the Khajiit said lightly.

            “Uh huh.” Onmund flexed his fingers. “Feed magic through me. I assume that J’zargo’s going to cut a hole through that wall?”

            “Yes,” Callaina said. “The Staff of Magnus can dampen magic.”

            “Good.”

            They pushed forward and the few wraiths that arrived were dispatched by Farkas. Callaina’s nausea was increasing with every step she took across the bridge but she was used to pushing on. She’d watched so many executions in her time that nausea could be ignored. She shoved aside the weariness and the wish to rest.

            Something groaned and Onmund cursed. “Earthquake!”

            “He’s pulling the earthbones apart!” Quaranir yelled. “Callaina, hold them together!”

            “What?” she yelped.

            “Hold them together! You have the blood of Talos and the power of Akatosh. The very earthbones of the world are at your command!”

            _To cast Alteration spells is to convince a greater power that it will be easier to change reality as requested than to leave it alone. Do not assume that these forces are sentient. Our best guess is that they are like wind and water. Persistent but not thoughtful. Just like directing the wind or water, diversions are easier than outright resistance. Express the spell as a subtle change and it is more likely to be successful._

            The text of _Reality and Other Falsehoods_ flashed through Callaina’s mind as she grabbed at the ragged remains of her power. The energy crackled around her hands and seared through the channels that governed such things until she blazed like a blue-green sun. She imagined bones – bones every hue of stone there ever was from rusty-black basalt to rosy granite – that were snapped with jagged edges. She knew how to set a broken limb. This was just it on a bigger scale.

            She pulled the bones of Kyne and Shor back into place with a shudder of stone, the recoil nearly knocking her off her arse except that she knew the nature of force by dint of being dovah. The blood of the world crashed in salty futility against the bones, threatening the crumbling cliffs, until she encouraged it to harden into clots, then into scabs. The breath of the world howled in protest at the sudden shift in space until she turned its force towards the bubble that shielded the College, sending its power into the space that J’zargo opened.

            “BEX!” she Shouted – and all gates within the sound of her Voice opened.

            “’Let me show you the power of Talos Stormcrown, born of the North, where my breath is long winter. I breathe now, in royalty, and reshape this land which is mine’,” Tolfdir murmured as all wind died.

            Callaina’s eyes snapped open and when she saw what she’d wrought, only Quaranir’s hand on her shoulder kept her from collapsing in shock.

            The College and the temple ruins behind it were now joined as one and them bound to the edge of Winterhold. No chasm remained, only walls of ice that guarded the edges of the land, hard and pale blue with deep green depths.

            “Stalhrim. My gods, that’s all stalhrim!” Sergius Terrianus breathed.

            “If we can chip off pieces, I think Winterhold’s monetary woes just got fixed,” Brelyna said shakily. “Ancano’s still in there with the Eye. We better stop him.”

            There was no resistance as the mages pressed towards the Hall of the Elements, where an exhausted Ancano stood, one hand on the blazing Eye of Magnus. “Why?” he asked weakly. “This is for the good of everyone!”

            “That’s not your place to decide,” Callaina whispered and the sound was a roar. “In the name of Kyne, in the name of Shor, in the name of Akatosh, you are found guilty of murder. Any last words?”

            “Yes. If you die-“

            Onmund’s Icy Spear took the Altmer in the chest and slammed him against the Eye, which began to rotate wildly. “J’zargo, close the fucking Eye!” Callaina screamed and the sound made the heavens thunder.

            The Khajiit mage slammed the Staff down and lightning shot through the power channels in the stone, coruscating across the Eye’s surface until it shut down. Every hair was on end but J’zargo still hung grimly on.

            Finally, it was over. The Eye returned to its quiescent state and the feeling of energy dissipated.

            “It is done.” Quaranir sounded as exhausted as everyone else. “Now we remove this thing from Mundus. It’s for none of us to have.”

            Flashes of light signalled the appearance of other Psijic monks. “Quaranir!” one of them said sharply. “You nearly doomed us all with your interference!”

            Callaina pushed back sweat-soaked hair and regarded the Altmer disgustedly. “You’d be the Ritemaster then?”

            “I am Ritemaster Nerien,” he confirmed. “Why do you ask, Dragonborn?”

            “Because you’re suffering a bad case of inter-rectal cranial insertion there, old boy,” she said dryly.

            Quaranir burst out laughing, followed by the other mages as they translated her meaning. Even a couple Psijics looked amused.

            “You aren’t funny. And you’ve come into your full powers long before you should have,” Nerien said severely.

            “Well, if you idiots had taken the Eye of Magnus before all _this_ happened, we wouldn’t be having this problem,” Quaranir snapped. “But no, you said ‘let’s see how this works out’. We nearly wound up _being cast into Oblivion_!”

            “We don’t interfere!” Nerien retorted.

            “Well, my interference saved us a lot of trouble,” Quaranir said testily. “Don’t bother exiling me. I’ll stay as advisor to Arch-Mage Jo’zargo. Auri-El knows Winterhold will need it.”

            “Let it be so,” one of the other Psijics agreed. “Ah, Dragonborn?”

            “Yeah?” she asked, wiping exhausted tears from her eyes.

            “Can you let us know when you’re going to rearrange the earthbones again? It makes my stomach a little touchy and I’m too old for that.”

            “You’re not funny, Gadrith,” Nerien said under his breath.

            “Oh, I don’t know about that,” Onmund grinned.

            “Nords have unsophisticated senses of humour.”

            “Nice to see the Psijics are racist too.”

            “I, uh, don’t plan on doing so in the future but if I do so, I’ll let you know,” she promised.

            “Thank you. You were meant to be the Arch-Mage, you know.” Gadrith regarded her mildly.

            “And someone told me I should have been Harbinger of the Companions,” she noted wryly. “Jills – she-dragons – shape fate as they see fit and I have no intention of being anyone’s leader if I can help it.”

            “Astonishing. A Septim Dragonborn who isn’t a genocidal tyrant,” Nerien noted sarcastically.

            “Nerien, your case of inter-rectal cranial insertion’s so bad that your mouth doubles as an arse,” Callaina told him crudely.

            “So he’s a jellyfish then?” Faralda asked in the background.

            Gadrith’s mouth twitched amusedly. “We’d better banish the Eye before more trouble happens. Brethren?”

            They gathered in a circle and began to glow. When it faded, the Eye was gone. Callaina felt something inside her snap into place like a broken bone and she fell to her knees.

            Farkas, who’d remained silent until now, helped her up. “What was all that?” he demanded of the Psijics.

            “Ancano tied the energy of the Eye to the Dragonborn,” Quaranir said softly. “If Callaina had died, so would have the world.”

            “Son of a bitch,” the werewolf growled.

            “Yes. If the Thalmor hadn’t corrupted him, he would have made an excellent novice,” Gadrith said sombrely. “Farewell. Dragonborn, you are ever welcome at Artaeum.”

            The Psijics glowed and disappeared into the ether. When they were gone, Quaranir heaved a heavy sigh.

            “Don’t be so sad,” Jo’zargo told him cheerfully. “We can teach you how to drink like a Nord.”

            Quaranir’s mouth quirked to the side. “Truly a goal worth pursuing.”

            Onmund flexed his stiff fingers. “I’ll get everyone back from the mine. Then I’m gonna sleep for a week.”

            “Pfft, like you’ll get the chance,” Brelyna laughed. “The mighty battlemage Onmund, slayer of Thalmor! They’ll be toasting you for days.”

            “You’d better learn to how to drink like a Nord,” Tolfdir advised Quaranir sagely. “Or you won’t be able to keep up.”

            Callaina just clung to Farkas. This crisis was averted – barely – and now she had to worry about Alduin. No rest for the wicked. None at all.


	28. Hope and Ice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of suicide, death, violence, religious persecution and genocide. I will return to ‘The Winter War’ when this chapter’s done. Giving Korir some characterisation because he deserves it.

 

Korir had come to rule Winterhold after his father, exhausted from years of trying to rebuild the shattered city, committed suicide by throwing himself into the chasm between them and the College. It was the sea-death because he drowned in the shallow waters, his body broken as the once-great Hold. He was barely thirteen when Malur set the copper circlet on his head.

            A marriage and son later, Winterhold was still isolated and ruined. The College kept on saying it wasn’t their fault but they did nothing to help Winterhold. So Korir blamed them, because he had no one else to blame, and brooded on the carved chair which replaced the Winter Throne of his ancestors. The blame curdled into hate and prejudice. It was easier to hate and brood because it staved off the cold despair of uselessness.

            Korir ran a hand over his face as they huddled inside the mine. The witch-elf Ancano had done something terrible and Onmund, whose clan was known to the Jarl, sent them to Whistling Mine because witchery was nothing steel could prevail against. Several hours later the Broken-Tusks arrived, twenty strong, and told them that the Dragonborn had arrived with the Hero-Twin Farkas and the Altmer equivalent of a Greybeard to deal with the danger. That was a few hours ago and shortly after, a terrible grinding sound had been heard, the earth shaking though no stone fell. Then the Dragonborn’s Voice had thundered across the sky several times, at least once involving profane language.

            Thaena, daughter of the second-last noble house in Winterhold, regarded him grimly in the candlelight. “How can we trust them mages?” she asked.

            “I don’t trust them,” Korir admitted. “But the Dragonborn…”

            Korlaina had, in her way, kept every promise she made. The woman hadn’t spared her tongue – as sharp in its way as the Stormsword’s – but she didn’t treat Korir like an idiot. Her words about Winterhold were plausible.

            He was about to order one of his few remaining guards out when Onmund cracked open the door. The mage was streaked with dust and blood, his brown hair messy and plain face exhausted. “It’s over,” he told Korir. “Just… don’t have a heart attack when you get back to town.”

            “Did you flatten what’s left of Winterhold?” Thaena asked waspishly.

            “No,” Onmund answered mildly. “Just… Well, there were a lot of forces involved and at least one of them was Aedric. You’ll see. It’s easier to show than explain.”

            “The Dragonborn?” Ulfgar Broken-Tusk asked.

            “Yeah, she was one of the prime movers.” Onmund rubbed the back of his neck. “All those stories about Talos being able to halt the sea for the Numidium to pass might have been true, if what Korli did is anything to go by.”

            Korir pushed his way through the crowd. “Show me,” he ordered.

            “Of course, Jarl Korir.” Onmund, to give him credit, was always unfailingly polite.

            They walked back to Winterhold and even past the buildings – from which the snow had been shaken off – Korir could see the walls of ice and the fact the College looked a lot closer than it should. “What in the name of Talos happened?”

            “You want my explanation or Korli’s explanation?” Onmund asked dryly.

            “Korli’s,” Ulfgar said. “She’s the Dragonborn.”

            “She said that the earthbones of Kyne and Shor were broken and she put them back into place,” Onmund said slowly. “Like setting a broken leg. The sea apparently crashed around and would have brought down what was left of Winterhold but she locked it into what Sergius is swearing is genuine stalhrim. And then she caught the wind and used it to open the hole in Ancano’s force bubble that Jo’zargo cut open with the Staff of Magnus.”

            Korir frowned. “Isn’t Magnus the god of magic?”

            “Yeah, kinda. It’s complicated and don’t ask me. I worship Jhunal and Talos.” Onmund’s slumped shoulders shrugged. “His Eye was probably what got the Falmer attacking Saarthal and because it was a powerful Aedric artefact, Ancano nearly ripped the world apart. He was a clever bastard, I’ll grant – he managed to bind the Dragonborn’s lifeforce to the Eye, so that if _she_ died, so did Nirn. Blackcoat bastard didn’t count on her Thu’um or the fact that she might look like an Imperial pen-pusher but damned if she isn’t the stubbornest woman I’ve ever seen.”

            The young mage scratched his chin. “The Staff was a bit like the key to a lock. I killed Ancano, Jo’zargo shut down the Eye, and Quaranir’s colleagues in the Psijic Order returned it to Magnus.”

            “Where’s Korli?” Korir asked.

            “Exhausted. She and Farkas are passed out in the inn. Jo’zargo’s the new Arch-Mage – he’s honestly the best pure mage of us and the Thalmor will have a shit fit when they find out he’s a Khajiit who fucking hates their black-coated arses – and Tolfdir’s the new Master Wizard. Quaranir hung around to advise Jo’zargo and the rest of us – offer’s probably open to you too, Jarl Korir, if you want it.”

            They reached the edge of where the chasm used to be and Korir had no words. From the sea, the temple ruins, the College and Winterhold were surrounded by ice walls that easily reached hundreds of feet tall. The two ‘islands’ had been melded with the edges of Winterhold to produce one almost seamless mass.

            “Tolfdir reckons we can carve paths down to the sea,” Onmund said carefully. “Maybe even cut a channel under the ice for boats to go through. We could sell the excess stalhrim or…”

            “Or?” Korir managed to choke out.

            “Use it to build walls from the other side. Tolfdir and me can probably make stalhrim now we’ve seen so much of it. Before she went to bed, Korli said this sort of thing was probably a once-off for her, because there was so much power and probably divine intervention involved. But just think, Jarl Korir – stalhrim walls, especially if we start carving out the hills between here and Saarthal to give us more building space. We could build the core of stone and then sheathe them in stalhrim.”

            Korir closed his eyes and imagined glittering walls of blue-green ice surrounding his city. “Could we incorporate Saarthal and Whistling Mine in them?”

            “Build them up to the cliffs and Kyne’s Cleft? Yeah, probably.” Onmund smiled crookedly. “It will either take a lot of Atronachs or manpower.”

            “For now, let us protect Winterhold proper,” Korir finally said. “When this war is over, we can think of expanding.”

            Ulfgar nodded. “With permission, I might move some of the clan over here. Dawnstar’s waters are too crowded and Windhelm’s fishing fleet’s been pressed into service or bought out by Shatter-Shield. We could set up a good base for horker hunting and ice fishing.”

            “Gladly,” Korir agreed. “I intend to offer your brother, the Dragonborn and Jo’zargo status as Thane.”

            “Can tell you now Korli will refuse,” Onmund said. “She walked away from her status as Thane in Whiterun. Hell, she was meant to be the Arch-Mage and if she’d taken another path, would have been Harbinger according to Quaranir.”

            “Makes sense,” Ulfgar observed. “She’s with Farkas, aye?”

            “Yeah.”

            Korir sighed. “I’m not happy but I can’t blame her. Windhelm or Falkreath are more likely, given her familial connections.”

            “I don’t think she wants any kind of authority,” Onmund said quietly. “The Empire broke her ambition just like they did the Sword of the Septims.”

            “’But the broken blade can still stab the enemy’ as she says,” Ulfgar pointed out. “I heard she turned a Thalmor’s bones and blood to acid.”

            “Yeah, Jo’zargo told us. She’s still pretty cut up about it but from an Alteration point of view, that’s a pretty damned neat trick.” Onmund looked out over the walls of ice. “If she ever decides to finish her formal training, she’s going to make me and Tolfdir look like amateurs.”

            “She once said that to use Alteration magic, you had to understand how the world is built,” Korir said slowly. “She is the blood of Talos, the heart of the world, and her soul is that of a dragon. Perhaps she is so good at this magic because of it.”

            “Probably,” Onmund agreed cheerfully. “We’re gonna give her an open invite to stop by any time. She helped the College and we pay our debts.”

            Korir nodded. “My hall is open to her any time – and to you mages, so long as you maintain proper respect.”

            Onmund grinned, showing ivory crooked teeth. “Good luck getting _that_ from Jo’zargo, Jarl Korir!”

            Korir chuckled unwillingly. “Jo’zargo will be reasonable, I am sure. I will allow his people within the walls under a close watch.”

            If Winterhold was going to be rebuilt, Korir might as well open his hall to a few new people. Even Ulfric reached out to outsiders now and then – and Talos had made use of many races.

            He inhaled and for the first time since his father’s death, the cold air smelt of possibility, not despair.

…

“Look, you might as well take it,” Thaena urged, pressing the garments into Callaina’s hands. “Green never suited me.”

            With a sigh the Dragonborn capitulated, accepting the green dress with its brown leather corset and matching shift. The bog and snows had ruined her last dress and Birna had no clothing for sale. Her belt and boots were still good though. Farkas was already rough-tanning the winter troll pelts from Labyrinthian for makeshift cloaks because they were good for the heavy northern snows.

            “Thanks,” she said.

            “No worries. Don’t trust them mages but you’re the Dragonborn and you got rid of that fucking chasm.” The Jarl’s wife didn’t elaborate on the statement. “Going to stay for the feast?”

            “Sadly, no. I’m overdue for my visit to Ustengrav and being recognised by the Greybeards,” Callaina sighed. “Alduin’s next on my shit list and that requires their aid.”

            “I just _love_ the casual way you say that,” Thaena drawled.

            “I don’t like what I have to do but I need to banish Alduin,” Callaina told her. “Maybe then the other dragons will listen.”

            “They want to destroy the world,” Thaena said with a frown.

            “Rule their own little territories, sure, but they’re attacking me because they’re more scared of Alduin than me.” She sighed yet again. “It feels like kinslaughter.”

            “Never thought it of like that,” Thaena finally said. “Do you reckon they’ll listen?”

            “Without Alduin to resurrect them, they’ll become semi-sentient bones in some mound somewhere again,” she said grimly. “They’d better.”

            “Good luck, Dragonborn,” Thaena said as she left. “Talos with you.”

            “And you,” Callaina responded as the door shut.

            Farkas and she would leave at dawn tomorrow before splitting up at Whiterun for their different destinations. He was going to chase down the Glenmoril coven and get the werewolf cure from them while she went to Ustengrav, then High Hrothgar. If there were any Blades left, they’d contact her at the tomb. What in Oblivion had Delphine been _thinking_ to join forces with the Silver Hand? If they’d managed to kill the Companions, Callaina would have murdered the woman slowly and cheerfully.

            That brought her back around to what she’d done to Nurancar the Younger. Callaina had never really considered herself better than anyone else but she didn’t think she could melt someone, even that murdering little prick, into a puddle of acid without breaking a sweat until she did it. It made her feel uneasy, to say the least. She didn’t _think_ she was a monster who could torture people. But did monsters really believe they were such?

            Most of the mages said he had it coming and Tolfdir was greatly interested in how she did it. The Broken-Tusks were telling the tale gleefully to all who would listen. Farkas had let her cry it out before saying, “We all do things we regret. Just don’t do it again.”

            But she wasn’t sure that she wouldn’t if faced by someone like Elenwen.

            She curled up on the bed and stared miserably at the wall. Sometimes she wondered why she had to be the only dragon in existence with a conscience.


	29. Tragedy at Jorrvaskr

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, religious persecution, torture and genocide. Read ‘The Winter War’ for events referenced in this story if you want the details.

 

Callaina didn’t even bother going through the maze of Ustengrav, instead using her magic to open the sliding rock door and close it behind her. She found a note on the hand which should have held the Horn telling her to go to the Sleeping Giant in Riverwood and hire a room that didn’t exist. Fucking Delphine. Death by the Emperor’s heir was the least she deserved.

            She left behind the burial goods of the Greybeards’ founder and walked to Morthal. A few Stormcloaks patrolled the streets alongside the Hold guards; Idgrod had obviously surrendered because in Whiterun, Ralof replaced everyone with his own people. The inn rooms were taken by Stormcloak commanders but a few septims to the Redguard innkeeper saw her buy a fur pallet on the floor for the night. Back to Whiterun tomorrow and then the Riverwood inn. Callaina would find that bloody horn if it killed her. She’d delayed too long. Alduin needed to be dealt with.

            Her sleep was fitful and in the morning, Callaina wasn’t a happy Dragonborn. Breakfast was two-day bread with dripping and a cup of weak mead as she waited for the carriage. _That_ turned out to be a long, tedious ride as the driver had to stop at every checkpoint. Ulfric was tightening his grip on the flow of food and information in Skyrim so that he could starve Solitude into submission.

            It was night when she reached Whiterun and exhausted, she decided to beg hospitality of the Companions. The streets were oddly dark and deserted. When she got to Jorrvaskr, she saw why.

            Someone – several someones – had dared to attack the base of the Companions. It was on fire with Ralof’s soldiers desperately trying to put out the blaze with buckets. Torvar and Njada were outside, trying to help them, but she saw no one else. Had Farkas gone to Glenmoril yet?

            Callaina closed her eyes and clenched her fists, imaging the flames turning to ice. Power flowed from her like blood from an open wound, the air around her cooling rapidly, and the soldiers began to curse and gasp in awe. When she felt no more heat, she opened her eyes to see a shroud of ice on the roof of the meadhall and the winter-brown grass sheathed in frost. It looked exactly like tongues of fire, only made of that hard blue-green ice Sergius called stalhrim.

            Ralof himself was the one to break through the ice and doors with his enchanted Nordic warhammer. Callaina was on his heels and she nearly vomited on seeing Tilma dead at the table, her throat neatly cut.

            “Their quarters are downstairs,” she said, nose wrinkling at the pungent scent of earth tar. How in the name of the gods had – presumably this Silver Hand – anyone gotten in here without alerting someone?

            “I know,” he said shortly. “I’ve spoken to the Harbinger a few times.”

            They found no whelps nor yet Vilkas or Aela. But Skjor was there, half-transformed into a werewolf and surrounded by dead Silver Hand, and Kodlak’s corpse… Callaina had seen the aftermath of the Thalmor’s torture and it was still nothing compared to what was done to the old Harbinger.

            The new Jarl of Whiterun stared at the mutilated thing in shock. “The Companions were _werewolves._ They killed Vignar-!”

            “It was my uncle who killed Vignar and he was an assassin before he ever became a werewolf!” Callaina snapped. “Irkand could have been a fucking vampire, werewolf or flying purple people-eater and he’d still be an assassin! There’s also another werewolf with the Dark Brotherhood named Arnbjorn or something like that.”

            Ralof’s jaw tensed. “You knew about this?”

            “Because a Jorrvaskr werewolf saved my life. He’s off looking for a cure.” Callaina gestured to the carnage. “The Circle have been werewolves for _centuries_ , Ralof, and none of this was them. It was all on the Silver Hand.”

            The Jarl paled. “After Vignar, I contacted them. Sweet Talos, if I’d known… Why would the heroes of Jorrvaskr sell their souls to Hircine?”

            “Because it was expected of them, I guess.” Callaina sighed and used Telekinesis to bring Kodlak’s body down. “Farkas, Vilkas and Kodlak wanted to be clean. Skjor and Aela were fine with it. They were going to give each new member of the Circle the choice, I gather.”

            Ralof had the decency to look ill. “How can you be so calm, Dragonborn?”

            “Because I watched the executions the Empire and Thalmor liked to perform,” Callaina replied absently, setting Kodlak’s corpse with some dignity on his bed. “You get used to atrocity – or go mad from witnessing it.”

            “Yet you turned that Thalmor into acid.”

            “And I’m sickened I did so instinctively,” she replied. “Never again. I will kill cleanly if I must but never again will I make someone suffer.”

            Ralof sighed and looked away. “What are we going to do?”

            “Burn the dead with honour. The Companions could have turned feral but they protected Skyrim where others couldn’t.” She pulled the fur coverlet over Kodlak’s body. “The survivors should return soon. We can discuss it with them.”

            “You know, until now I didn’t understand why _you_ were the Dragonborn,” Ralof finally said. “You refuse glory and honour, power and position. You run away from many things. You can’t even fight properly.”

            “I can think of two or three people who’d make a better Dragonborn too,” she agreed wryly. “Farkas or Onmund from the College of Winterhold.”

            “But then I realised you’re not an aspect of Shor as the others like Talos were,” Ralof continued. “You belong to Kyne. The grieving warrior-widow who endures where others can’t, the Storm-Bringer and the Kiss at the End. You change the world wherever you go, Dragonborn. Forgive my doubt.”

            “Kyne’s a Jill – a minute-mender – then?” Callaina asked. “It’s my job to set broken time and the balance of things right. Alduin rose above his station and now we’re paying for it.”

            “And you will end it,” Ralof said simply. “Let’s go. We need to find out how this happened.”

            She paused to lay blankets over Skjor and Tilma. Farkas was going to be heartbroken when he found out.

…

“We have to find and destroy the Silver Hand,” Vilkas, newly returned from the Rift minus Ria, said hotly.

            “Not until we’re clean,” Farkas said quietly. “Not until the old man’s clean.”

            In the end, they’d chosen to tell the whelps what happened. Skjor was interred in the Underforge and Kodlak and Tilma burned on the Skyforge. Ralof had given a moving eulogy that was at least half-lie, calling the Silver Hand attack unprovoked when he’d been the one to contact them about werewolves.

            “Vengeance first,” Aela said. “They took the pieces of Wuuthrad. We can’t get into Ysgramor’s Tomb without it.”

            “Yes, we can.” Callaina leaned against the wall of the Underforge. “I can open any door.”

            “You have to go to High Hrothgar with the Horn,” Vilkas pointed out.

            “The Horn is either at Riverwood or lost because Delphine stole it,” she countered. “Farkas helped me at Winterhold. I will help you in this.”

            Vilkas said a rude word in Orcish and Callaina grinned at him. “You need to deepen your gutturals.”

            His next word was in a lilting language that had his brother smacking him upside the ear and growling, “Show some respect!”

            Aela looked away. “Skjor was my mate. I want blood and vengeance for him.”

            “I understand, Aela. But we should give the dead their due before anything else.” Callaina sighed. “If we wait any longer, Kodlak may not be able to escape the Hunting Grounds.”

            “I have the cure,” Farkas announced. “Mudcrab chitin, charred skeever hide and canis root. Talked the Glenmoril witches into giving it to me so long as we don’t attack the Forsworn so long as they don’t attack innocent travellers or merchants. Stormcloaks still fair game though.”

            Vilkas stared at him incredulously. “You let the Hagravens live?”

            “Yeah. Because there’s no honour in killing old women. Did turn Krev the Skinner into a werewolf after I pinned him to a tree, then shot him with silver bolts though. He tried to kill me for his winter cloak.”

            Callaina blinked and saw the gentle warrior in a new light.

            Aela’s smile was vicious. “That was well done, Farkas.”

            “He tried to kill me in dishonour with twelve warriors, so I returned the favour,” the giant said simply. “Probably should’ve just killed him with a silver sword but… he attacked me and my brother. Woulda killed Ria too. They killed plenty of innocent people because they might be werewolves.”

            “How are the whelps dealing with the fact some of the Circle are werewolves?” Callaina asked.

            “Athis isn’t impressed. Torvar doesn’t really care and Njada…” Aela sighed. “She called us hypocrites. But she’s right.”

            “Ria swore on her sword she wouldn’t say anything,” Vilkas said heavily. “We got through to the Pale Pass just before the Stormcloaks took over Falkreath. She left with a train of refugees.”

            “She might be the saving of Cyrodiil,” Callaina said softly. “But let’s get the twins cured, if the cure’s so easy to make. I know enough about alchemy to make it myself.”

            “Already made.” Farkas pulled out two vials. “Uh, Aela?”

            “My mate is in the Hunting Grounds and I will go to him,” she said softly. “Sovngarde would be hell for me.”

            He nodded. “Gonna need you and Korli to kill the wolf spirits. Can you do that?”

            Callaina drew her sword and Aela her dagger. “Yes.”

            The two werewolves downed the potion and the result was agonising to watch. They howled and writhed, screamed and begged as their bodies underwent a terrible change, bones twisting unnaturally until two glowing wolves emerged from the warriors.

            The spirits were tough but in the end, Callaina and Aela prevailed. The men returned to normal, panting like they’d been in a terrible battle, lines of agony creased into their faces.

            “I’m free,” Vilkas moaned. “Free.”

            “Feel like sinking into a bath of warm mead,” Farkas croaked. “Aches and pains are gone. Never noticed them.”

            Aela was crying. “I’m the last of the pack.”

            Callaina gave her a hug. “There’s always those who like the hunt. I’m sure you’ll get a few new ones.”

            She nodded, wiping her eyes. “Korli, would it be an insult if we asked you to become the Mistress of Jorrvaskr? Olfina and Jon will be joining up in the spring, little Lucia needs somewhere to stay and… you’ve stood by us no matter what.”

            Callaina knelt beside Farkas, helping him to sit up. “I assume that was Tilma’s role?”

            “Yes. To you falls the keys, the resources and the gold of Jorrvaskr.” That was Vilkas. “Being a Colovian Nord and a former tax assessor, you’d keep the books better than Tilma ever did.”

            “I’ll want you to clean up after yourselves,” she warned. “Or hire a couple of servants.”

            “The former,” Farkas growled. “We’re too lazy.”

            He wrapped an arm about her and she leaned into his warm bulk. “I’m guessing you all know Kodlak was talking about making me Harbinger if I killed the Glenmoril witches and brought back a cure. But I didn’t because it wasn’t honourable. Kodlak said in order to guide the Companions to honour, a Harbinger had to know what dishonour was.”

            “I still think that’s fucking bullshit,” Callaina said flatly. “I was ready to kick Kodlak’s arse when I found out.”

            “I think it depends from Harbinger to Harbinger,” Aela said slowly. “And the times the Companions are living in. But… well… if we go to Ysgramor’s Tomb, we will know who is worthy.”

            “Why?” Callaina asked.

            “Because that is where the Flame of the Harbingers, the collective knowledge of every one of them back to Ysgramor, burns,” the Huntress said evenly. “That is where Kodlak will hide. If we can cure him there…”

            “Then we go there first,” Farkas decided. “Korli can open the door. Then the Companions as a whole find and destroy the Silver Hand.”

            Callaina already knew who the next Harbinger would be. But she said nothing as Aela and Vilkas agreed. “Then as Mistress of Jorrvaskr, I say let’s go.”


	30. Korvanjund

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death and violence. For the lead up to this chapter, read ‘The Winter War’.

 

The bandits at Korvanjund died quick and clean via Ice Spikes. Since Winterhold, Callaina’s skill in Destruction had improved, and her Alteration talents were… considerable. She chose not to reflect on why her affinity for ice was so strong, not after everything Morokei and others said to her. Hard enough to be Dragonborn – chosen Avatar of Kynareth wasn’t on her to-do list.

            “Eorlund’s going to love you,” Njada said suddenly out of the blue as she pulled the blue-green spikes from the chests of the bandits. “Stalhrim and the making of it’s a lost art. The shaping of it is still known to a few smiths but the creation has been lost until now.”

            “I get the impression that Nords have forgotten a lot of their old magics,” Callaina observed. “And don’t ask me how I do the ice thing, because I don’t know.”

            “Well, you’ll never be short of coin, even as Mistress of Jorrvaskr.” The younger woman sighed as they entered the tomb. “I’m sorry for judging you, Korli.”

            “I’m rather disappointing as a Dragonborn,” she sighed. Vines blocked the path until she placed her hands on them, turning the twisted tangles to flexible withies once more and shaping them into an arch. Transmutation in particular had become easy. “What self-respecting dragon doesn’t want to rule the world?”

            Njada’s laugh was half-despairing, half-rueful. “If I were Dragonborn, I’d have driven the Legion into the sea by now.”

            “From what I heard, Egil did a good job of that on his own.” Callaina sighed again. “I honestly thought better of Rikke. That was just petty spite what she did. I don’t care how a Shieldmaiden would frame it.”

            “If she was sworn to defend the Empire, sacrificing her hope for Sovngarde would be a fair trade for fulfilling her oath,” Njada said slowly. “The Shieldmaidens of Talos were always feared because their vows take precedence over _everything._ The honour lies in the keeping of them, not the behaviour that most Nords call honourable.”

            “Do you know my mother’s oath?” Callaina asked curiously.

            “’To emulate Talos in all aspects’,” Njada promptly replied.

            “…That doesn’t make me feel any better.” Callaina held up her hand, hearing the familiar growl of a draugr, before calling horker oil from the aether to slick up the stairs. When the draugr came lumbering up, she cast Firebolt on it, setting the monsters alight. The few that passed the fire were bashed into submission by Njada.

            “Why not?” Njada asked when it was done.

            “Because Talos was a warlord who deployed assassins, dispossessed entire races, committed political chicanery and betrayed oaths he made to achieve his goals,” was her grim reply. “The ends don’t always justify the means and that vow gives me a terrifying insight into my mother.”

            When the fire died down, they went deeper into the tomb. The draugr were better armed and armoured than most. “The honour guard of a High King,” Njada observed. “Each of these warriors would have been considered the equal of a Companion.”

            “And they all voluntarily agreed to be embalmed and buried with Borgas?” Callaina’s Ice Spike dropped another one.

            “It’s part of the huscarl’s oath,” Njada explained. “To defend their lord in life and death.”

            “So your uncle…”

            “Will be buried with Ulfric. Given they’re old childhood friends, he’s fine with it.” Njada’s shield bash shattered a draugr’s face. “Egil’s going to need a huscarl after this. He should have had one beforehand.”

            “Is that your plan?” Callaina asked.

            “If I must.” There was something in Njada’s face that the Dragonborn glanced away from.

            They reached the main room and Callaina didn’t bother with levers or traps or whatever – she cast Open Lock on the sealed door. “Sorry for taking the challenge out of this but I’d rather not lose my little brother,” she told Njada.

            “Did you hear me complaining?” the white-haired girl retorted dryly. “Egil’s survival is the most important thing.”

            They went deeper into the tomb, leaving scattered draugr in their wake. “So, you know more about Borgas than me. What of his treasures is important?”

            “The Jagged Crown,” Njada said promptly. “I’m surprised that Ulfric hasn’t tried to get it before now. It would legitimise his rule by linking him to the great High Kings of old.”

            “Yes, but how will it help Egil?”

            “It’s said that no true High King can be harmed while wearing it.” Njada’s smile was a little crooked. “Bjarni’s a good lad and will give Falkreath a fine Jarl, but it’s Egil who has the best of both parents. Ulfric’s charisma and drive, Sigdrifa’s patience and tactical ability.”

            “He could understand the shades of grey in justice a little more, but he’s still young,” Callaina pointed out.

            They reached the inner tomb where a mightily bearded draugr wearing a crown of dragonbone lounged on a throne. Callaina paused and then Shouted, “Iiz Slen!”

            Borgas was instantly sheathed in ice and Njada strode forth, her sword and shield at the ready. Of course, the sarcophagi on either side of the High King opened and presented something of a challenge. The Sword of the Septims and Njada’s shield made short work of them but as the draugr fell, the draugr-king stirred and shook off the ice.

            Callaina grabbed the rust-pitted axe one of the lesser draugr had dropped and threw it directly at Borgas’ chest. The draugr staggered back but didn’t fall, so she launched Ice Spikes at the knees as Njada flanked him.

            It took some doing but eventually Borgas fell, the icy glow of his eyes fading into nothingness. Njada removed the Jagged Crown reverently, sketching some kind of blessing sign.

            “I’m sorry, High King, but another one needs this. Rest in peace and know you aren’t forgotten.”

            Callaina saw a Word Wall behind the throne and examined it. A new Word blazed through her consciousness.

            “How long will it take you to get to Windhelm?” she asked Njada.

            “A half-day,” the Shieldmaiden replied. “It might surprise you but I can run pretty far in heavy armour.”

            “Kynareth with you. I better go back to Heljarchen and wait for the others.” Callaina sighed. “Tell Egil I hope he recovers soon.”

            “I will.” They left the tomb together and then Njada was running at a ground-eating lope, the Crown stuffed safely into her pack.

            Callaina turned around and surprised a couple rough-looking Nords creeping up towards her. “You’ve got two options,” she informed them. “Leave right now or get Shouted arse over head.”

            “You killed our friends!” the dark-haired one shot back.

            “And you idiots took up banditry.” Callaina allowed the edge of the Thu’um to enter her voice. “Fuck off. I’m cold, tired and need a stiff drink.”

            “Glory or Sovngarde!” was his response.

            Then a Fireball blasted a hole in his chest as the other collapsed, a crimson-haired girl in red velvet latched to the side of the neck.

            “Nice work,” complimented a deep Hammerfell-accented baritone as an Alik’r warrior stepped into the clearing.

            “Of course it was nice work!” groused an old man in red and black. “I know what I’m doing.”

            “Thanks,” Callaina told the two. “I was about to freeze those two morons solid but the Shout I use tends to attract dragons.”

            “So you’re Irkand’s niece,” drawled the Alik’r.

            “Yes. I’m guessing you’re Brotherhood then.” Callaina shifted, regarding them through half-lidded eyes.

            The vampire child finished feeding, letting the corpse drop. Her delicate features grimaced in distaste. “Would it kill a Nord bandit to bathe once in a while?” she complained.

            “Probably,” the old man observed sourly. “It appears, Listener, we’ve been honoured with the presence of the Dragonborn.”

            Callaina studied the vampire. “The Demon Child of Wayrest?” she asked, taking in the Breton features and fashion.

            “My reputation precedes me,” Babette Revanche said smugly. “As does yours, Aurelia Callaina.”

            “I’m afraid to ask what my uncle’s said,” she said dryly. “But thanks for the help.”

            “No worries. If all that _is_ ends, how can all that _isn’t_ exist?” Babette wiped her mouth daintily. “How’s that going anyway?”

            “I keep on running into obstacles and idiots,” Callaina sighed.

            “Story of my life,” Babette agreed ruefully. “Good luck with everything.”

            “You too, I guess.” Callaina nodded politely to the… Listener. Dear Kynareth, the Dark Brotherhood was back in all its bloody glory.

            The Redguard and the old man, who looked Nibenese, offered curt nods before turning away. Babette lingered, smiling a little.

            “Bruma will be avenged soon, I promise. Sithis watch over you.”

            The Listener faded into the gathering gloom and Callaina shivered, feeling the presence of something sacred and dark leaving.

            Then she resolutely headed for Heljarchen. She was cold, tired and needed a stiff drink.


	31. The Time Wound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, suicide and fantastic racism. For events referenced in this chapter, read ‘The Winter War’. I’m massively streamlining the main quest.

 

After the capture of Sahloknir, the Companions returned to Jorrvaskr to gather the Circle for the final pilgrimage to Ysgramor’s Tomb. This time Callaina remained behind to rest and recuperate, gathering the strength to fetch Jurgen’s horn from Ustengrav. She needed to face the Greybeards because the Blades were lost, now and forever.

            Cirroc had left with Saadia and barely a thank you. Her brother, even if he didn’t realise it, was as petulant as she remembered her father being. Ralof had been all for piking her head at the gates but Cirroc intended to have the glory of delivering Iman al-Sura to Hammerfell himself, leaving one Lu’ah al-Skaven for the rest of the Alik’r. He clung to his Sword-Sainthood so much, like a shield against the reality of his ancestry. But the dovah within saw the Powers with Their hands over the boy, Powers that would meddle with his life whether he liked it or not.

            She was sitting under the dead Gildergreen one day when Frodnar, Ralof’s nephew and now heir until he sired his own, ran down the stairs from Dragonsreach. “Dragonborn!” he yelled. “Uncle Ral- the Jarl wants you.”

            Callaina sighed and rose to her feet. Ralof was bound and determined to drag her into politics now that the Stormcloaks had all but won Skyrim. She wasn’t really up to another bout with the Jarl of Whiterun.

            The Great Hall was full of Thanes, Stormcloak officers and other notables. Much to her surprise, several were openly weeping while Lydia – hostage for her exiled family and Ralof’s likely new bride – looked subtly pleased and apprehensive all at once. Ralof himself was ragged and worn, his eyes reddened and hair in disarray. What in the name of Kynareth had happened?

            The Jarl fixed his sky-blue gaze on Callaina as Frodnar led her to the dais. “How far along are you in the fight against Alduin?” he asked bluntly.

            “I need to go to Ustengrav and find the horn of Jurgen Windcaller so the Greybeards will help me more,” she admitted. “I was waiting for the Circle to return before I went.”

            “You need muscle to achieve your goals, Dragonborn?” asked a Thane scornfully.

            “I’ve taken on a dragon by myself,” she replied. “But having a good sword-arm on my side against a three-tonne house-sized immortal killing machine helps.”

            “ _Enough_ , Hjalf,” Ralof said tiredly. “The Dragonborn knows how best to fight the dragons.”

            He raked his hand through greasy blond hair. “There’s no easy way to say this. General Tullius launched a suicide attack on Ulfric’s personal guard as they made their way to Solitude. Both Ulfric Stormcloak and Galmar Stone-Fist are dead.”

            “Shit.” Callaina knew exactly where this was going.

            “Yes. You have told us the World-Eater feasts on the souls of heroes in Sovngarde.” Ralof’s gaze was pleading. “These people in the hall are the greatest of Ulfric’s supporters. Whatever you need, Korli, it will be given to you. But please defeat the World-Eater so our heroes may be saved.”

            She closed her eyes. “What I need you can’t give me and that’s rest. I need the use of the courier relay to Morthal and then Ivarstead. After that, I have no damned idea. I need hospitality at every town. If dragons appear, I need swords that won’t run away. In time, I will need the dragon-trap on your porch, Ralof. I want it oiled and ready by the time I return from Ivarstead.”

            “Done.” Ralof’s voice was relieved. “When will you leave?”

            “Tomorrow at dawn.” Farkas wouldn’t be back but she couldn’t help that. If she failed to save Ulfric, the Nords would kill her even if she defeated Alduin. “What’s going to happen to Bjarni and Egil?”

            “Egil has my support,” Ralof said grimly. “And if any other Jarl disagrees, they will see their trade halted.”

            “Hjaalmarch will stand for Egil,” announced a plain brown-haired Nord woman. “That is why Idgrod surrendered to Ulfric – she foresaw the High King that would be.”

            “I had wondered at that,” Ralof murmured. “Bjarni will stand with his brother as Jarl of Falkreath.”

            “Riften will support Egil because the alternative is Sigdrifa Stormsword,” observed a severe raven-haired female. “I think we all agree we don’t want _her_ on the High King’s seat.”

            “I’m agreeing with Maven Black-Briar. I think Oblivion just froze over,” muttered an Imperial woman in heavy quilted clothing. “I can’t speak for Jarl Skald but Dawnstar listens to me. Is Egil strong enough to hold the throne?”

            “He held Windhelm in a two-week siege against the Legion and a Shieldmaiden of Talos equal to my mother in tactics, then united Nord, Dunmer and Argonian in the battle that broke it,” Callaina announced clearly. “Furthermore, my brother wears the Jagged Crown and it fits his head perfectly.”

            “By the gods,” the Imperial from Dawnstar breathed. “I thought it a myth.”

            “It’s no myth. I handled it myself,” Callaina answered, regarding the woman frankly. “On that note, if you’re planning to betray Egil, you better pray I don’t come back from Sovngarde. _My oath applies to me raising arms against the Empire or claiming the Ruby Throne._ It doesn’t cover anyone stupid enough to hurt my family in the sovereign nation of Skyrim.”

            The edge of the Thu’um in her voice rumbled in the rafters and the crowd fell silent.

            “I don’t get involved in politics because I’ve seen what happens when you fuck up,” Callaina continued. “I won’t be the High King’s punisher or whatever. I’m going to be a very pissed-off dovah protecting her family. And I won’t attack your armies. I will come for the traitor personally.”

            She squared her shoulders. “Egil’s young but he’s solid. So instead of treating him like a child, share with him your experience. Skyrim’s more than Jarls and Thanes and Ysgramor. It’s _everyone_.”

            The Dawnstar woman nodded. “I can get behind that. The Talos _I_ worship united the races, not divided them.”

            “Thank you.” Callaina sighed. “I’m sorry for your loss, Ralof. Ulfric and I may not have seen eye to eye but he never tried to force me to break an oath or fight his war for him. He also offered help unstintingly when I needed it.”

            “You were his kin,” Ralof said simply. “He defended you, you know, more than once.”

            “And that’s why I’m going to do my best to defeat Alduin. Because I’ll be damned before that bastard devours the heroes of Skyrim, from Kodlak Whitemane and Ulfric Stormcloak to Torvar and Galmar Stone-Fist.”

            She nodded stiffly. “Gods with you.”

            “And you, Dragonborn. You are our last hope now.”

…

“Dragonborn, you return to us without the horn.”

            “Because Delphine Revanche was a fucking meddler and now is dead, so damned if I know where the fucking horn is,” Callaina spat in disgust. “I had to go to Winterhold, if I hadn’t-“

            “We know,” Arngeir interrupted, expression frosted vinegar at her obscenities. “Kyne told us.”

            “So what now? The Blades are dead and with them any knowledge that might have helped. I only remember a few things. Are you going to offer me help, freely and unstintingly, or screw me over because of your own agenda?”

            Arngeir sighed. “What if the world is meant to end, Kah-Lah-Nah?”

            “Then the entrée’s going to include Ulfric. He’s in Sovngarde at the moment and therefore prey for the World-Eater.” Callaina dropped the grim news deliberately. “So will you help me or stand around twiddling your thumbs while the heroes of Sovngarde are devoured at the World-Eater’s pleasure?”

            Arngeir went as grey as his robe, the other Greybeards exchanging shocked glances. “How did he die?”

            “Tullius took him out in a suicide attack. Only recourse left to him, really, because the Empire would have crucified him for failure.”

            “By Kyne…” Arngeir lowered his head. “We will help, Kah-Lah-Nah. Speak to Paarthurnax. It will be easier for him to explain than us.”

            “Thank you,” Callaina said with genuine gratitude. “I’ve tried to use the Thu’um as sparingly as I can, Arngeir. I don’t like killing my own kind. Maybe with Alduin banished, the dovahhe will back off.”

            “I admit, I’ve only heard your Voice a few times,” he admitted. “Come. We have a final gift to give you, even if we do not formally announce you as Dragonborn just yet.”

            The ‘final gift’ was a Shout to clear the skies above the Throat of the World. Wrapped in the white furs Farkas gave her, Callaina climbed the winding path, fighting ice wraiths on the way. She finally approached the plateau where a blank Word Wall was built, looking around for the grey dragon who’d tried to save her from bears that one time.

            “Drem Yol Lok!” she bellowed into the sky.

            “Drem Yol Lok, Kah-Lah-Nah,” greeted the tiny white dovah who stepped out from behind the Word Wall. “Paarthurnax is hunting dinner at the moment. I am Teyfunvahzah.”

            _Tale-Told-True._ The second dragon to join the resistance against Alduin. “I thought you’d be bigger,” she said wryly.

            “Sahloknir was big,” Teyfunvahzah noted dryly.

            “A dragon with a sense of humour.” She raked her hands through her wind-tousled hair. “I need help. Ulfric Stormcloak’s in Sovngarde and if I don’t kick the arse of Alduin soon…”

            “Ul-Frul-Aak knew when he left the Greybeards his life would be a short one,” Teyfunvahzah observed. “But yes, it would be a tragedy if Alduin were to devour his memory. Perhaps it is best I am here instead of Paarthurnax. For mine is the tale told true and the tale is one you must hear.”

            He nodded to the distortion of air that she could perceive. “A time wound from the Dragon War. An Elder Scroll, as you call it, was used to cast Alduin on the winds of time when even the only Shout ever created by mortals failed to defeat him totally.”

            “A hole was ripped in time and space,” she breathed.

            “Yes. And a Prophecy written to mend it.” Teyfunvahzah sighed gustily. “A distortion in _reality_ , Dragonborn.”

            “And as an Alteration mage, I can fuck with it.” Callaina observed. “Through scrying’s more an Illusion spell.”

            She focused on the time wound and called forth her magicka. “Sýndu mér,” she murmured in Old Atmoran. _Show me._

The white world of today faded from view to be replaced by a hellish landscape. She looked through the gaze of an old weary man named Felldir the Old. He was tired, so tired. In the brief mirror-reflection of Gormlaith’s polished sword-blade she saw turquoise eyes just like hers.

            The Golden-Hilt, first of the Shieldmaidens of Shor, drove her sword into the head of a dragon with a laugh. Her brother Hakkon was warier, one eye lost to a bout with Odahviing, and chided his sister for recklessness even as he cursed Felldir for bringing the Elder Scroll.

            _This won’t end well,_ Callaina thought distantly – and felt Felldir’s shock.

            _Who are you?_ His demand was short and sharp. _Answer me! I am Felldir, priest of Jhunal, Tongue blessed by Kyne Herself!_

 _I am Aurelia Callaina, called Korli Broken-Blade, called the Last Dragonborn,_ she responded. _My job’s to kick Alduin’s scaly rump in the future you cast it into._

 _Ah._ She felt chagrin and weary regret. _I’m sorry. It must be done. Miraak won’t help us. It’s this or humanity is devoured._

 _I understand lousy choices, Ferocious-Push,_ she told him. _But I need the weapon that you used against Alduin. The only Shout ever created by man._

_It’s been forgotten?_

_Apparently. The ones who might have known it are dead and the others likely won’t tell me because they focus on peaceful Shouts._

_Idiots._ Felldir’s voice was scornful. _Watch. Learn. Alduin approaches._

The battle was short and sharp, Gormlaith dying and Felldir unfurling the Scroll, throwing Alduin on the winds of time in the name of Kyne Sister-Hawk. Letters of fire wrote themselves across the sky – Joor. Zah. Frul. Mortal. Finite. Temporary.

            The very essence of mortality bound into a Shout. Hatred for dragons in every Word. They burned like acid on her tongue.

            _“It’s not what you say, Korli. It’s how you say it.”_

 _Of all the advice you’ve ever given me, Mother, that might actually be the best,_ she thought as the world became white again and the familiar roar of Alduin shattered the sky.

            “JOOR ZAH FRUL!” Callaina Shouted it, putting all the defiance and love of life that characterised humanity into the Words. She put in her love of Farkas. Her exhaustion. Her fear and pain and terror. But no hatred. No rage. And most certainly no loathing for her own kin and kind.

            The Shout hit Alduin from the side as Teyfunvahzah attacked from the other, Paarthurnax diving through the clouds to attack from above. Alduin actually rolled in the air and hit the side of the mountain, falling down until he managed to unbind his wings. When he rose, his red eyes glared balefully.

            “Impressive, Kah-Lah-Nah,” he observed. “But the weapon of your ancestors will not help you now.”

            “Which one, arsehole?” she demanded. She balanced the Sword of the Septims like a javelin and launched it at the left eye.

            Like anything she threw it struck cleanly and Alduin roared in pain. Paarthurnax dove from above once again and hit the World-Eater’s back, leaving vicious wounds in his wings and driving him to the earth again. “The Shout, Kah-Lah-Nah!” he screamed. “Use it!”

            She obeyed and the Shout struck both dovahhe. Paarthurnax roared defiance and sank his teeth into his older brother’s neck, tearing out chunks as Teyfunvahzah hovered helplessly above, unable to attack without hitting the Greybeards’ master.

            Callaina yanked out the Sword and entered the fray just as the Shout wore off. Alduin rolled, throwing off Paarthurnax, but before he could retaliate Teyfunvahzah struck. “Flee, World-Eater!” he advised. “Flee or die!”

            Alduin wobbled back, his wings in tatters, and fell off the mountain. The sound of him crashing against the side of the Throat of the World was probably heard all over Skyrim.

            “He is not dead,” Paarthurnax gasped as he staggered to his feet. “But you have won a victory here today, Kah-Lah-Nah.”

            “ _We_ did,” she responded, panting heavily. “Maybe now a few less dovahhe will try to fight me.”

            “Maybe.” Teyfunvahzah sighed. “You will need to question one of his lieutenants. He will go to Sovngarde to feast on the souls of the heroic dead, to regain power. Neither me nor Paarthurnax know where he keeps the entrance.”

            “So who’s his favourite lackey?” she asked.

            “That one is easy. Odahviing. Call him and he will come, because he is an arrogant lizard.”

            “Looks like that dragon trap’s at Dragonsreach gonna come in handy.”

            Teyfunvahzah grinned. “Great minds think alike. Of course, we are both Jills. It is to be expected.”

            Paarthurnax snorted in laughter. He was battered but still alive. “Do not be impressed with him, Kah-Lah-Nah.”

            She wiped dragon blood from the Sword of the Septims. “I’d love to stay and chat but time’s running short. I’ll never hear it from my brothers if I let my stepfather get eaten by Alduin.”

            Teyfunvahzah continued to grin. “Do not worry, Dragonborn. I will help you get down in a hurry.”

            She screamed the whole controlled glide down to the Whiterun plains. Because who needed to be the heroic Dragonborn when she left her stomach up with Paarthurnax? Not her, that was for certain.


	32. The Mists of Sovngarde

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and implied sexual content. Welp, folks, it’s show time (almost)! Loads and loads of dragon head-canon.

 

“I see being Harbinger has its perks,” Callaina chuckled as she entered the Harbinger’s bedroom. A four-poster bed of the kind she didn’t think existed in Skyrim was covered in wool blankets and lush furs, tapestries softening stone walls and rugs on the floor. Farkas hung Wuuthrad on the wall and shucked off the cave bearskin cloak around his shoulders, revealing a massive torso clad in plain brown wool. It was strange to see him in anything other than armour.

            “Suppose so,” he agreed. “Added some extra furs because I know you get cold.”

            “Why would I need them when I’ve got you?” she countered.

            “Not as warm anymore,” he replied.

            “You’re warm enough,” she assured him.

            His quicksilver eyes warmed. “Good to hear. Gonna stay tonight?”

            Callaina nodded. “Yes.”

            Neither of them was a virgin. Callaina had never asked about Farkas’ love life and rarely thought about her own – the odd one night stand, that three-month fling with Fasendil that was mostly to piss off the Thalmor – but the Harbinger proved to be methodical, dedicated and a better fit than she expected. In the aftermath, they cuddled together on the bed, most of the furs and blankets kicked off despite the cold. It was a supremely comfortable bed, better than any she’d known.

            “You come back to me,” Farkas said simply.

            “I will,” she promised.

…

Capturing Odahviing was ridiculously easy. The red dragon cursed his luck, the humans who captured him and the Dragonborn’s cunning. He then nearly set Farengar on fire when the mage tried to acquire samples – dovahhe didn’t much like needles, Callaina figured – and then eyed the sky mournfully. “Just finish me,” he said. “You have won.”

            “I need information,” Callaina told the dragon. “Tell me and I’ll let you go.”

            He regarded her with disbelief. “You lie.”

            “I’m going to let that one slide,” she said, eyes narrowing. “I don’t lie. Not to my fellow dovahhe.”

            “What is to stop me from attacking you once I am unbound?” he pointed out. Her honesty deserved some of his own apparently.

            “Because I’m the only thing between you and the World-Eater,” she said bluntly. “Alduin’s weak and desperate. Once he’s had a few heroes as entrée, he’s going to want a main meal, and who better than the lieutenant who failed him?”

            “There are Paarthurnax and Teyfunvahzah,” Odahviing countered.

            “Both of whom have an entire order of powerful Tongues willing to defend them,” she said with a grin. “Alduin didn’t even get a mark on Teyfunvahzah.”

            Odahviing winced. “When that gets out…”

            “Precisely. Alduin is reeling and I need to get to Sovngarde to land the deathblow.” She smiled slightly. “I don’t want to fight my own kind, Odahviing. There are enemies who would defy the will of Bormahu, enemies who need to learn that the children of Akatosh won’t stand for their disobedience.”

            “What happened to Sahloknir?” he asked suddenly.

            Callaina told him and the dragon nearly choked himself laughing. “Ha! Hircine may keep the fool lizard!”

            “He definitely wasn’t one of your brightest,” she agreed ruefully. “I could have killed a lot more, Odahviing. But I know you’re attacking me because you’re more scared of Alduin than myself.”

            “We serve him because he is the greatest of our kind!” Odahviing snapped. Then his head dropped. “Though, after his defeat, there was quiet talk among ourselves about his rightness to rule.”

            “Might doesn’t always make right,” Callaina pointed out. “I’ve talked my way out of as many situations, if not more, than I have fought. Hell, until I got Clear Skies, I didn’t even get a full Shout.”

            “You are a Jill,” Odahviing observed. “Your kind rarely fights.”

            “And if Alduin wasn’t a world-eating, soul-snacking arsehole, I wouldn’t be now,” Callaina countered. “Your choice, Odahviing – help me free the dovahhe or I’ll go elsewhere. I’m sure Ahgrahyol would be happy to cooperate-“

            “He is a-“ The rest of the Dovahzul was hard to translate into Tamrielic, so Callaina settled for ‘fucking idiot’. “So be it, Dovahkiin. I will help you.”

            “Thank you,” Callaina said. “Where is he and how do I get there?”

            “He is at Skuldafn and…” Odahviing sighed. “You must be flown there. He will have concentrated whatever dovahhe are still loyal around the portal – and possibly at least one Dragon Priest. Skuldafn had its own dedicated one, as I recall.”

            “Which one was this? I sent Morokei on at Labyrinthian.”

            “Nahkriin. ‘Fury-Slay’ but more akin to ‘vengeance’ in your tongue.” Odahviing sighed gustily. “They were loyal, our priests, until Miraak rose. I miss my old friend Vahlok, the Guardian.”

            “I keep on hearing about this Miraak,” Callaina observed. “Allegiance-Guide.”

            “And the first of your kind,” Odahviing said. “Not the Tongues – they were blessed by Kaan and taught by Paarthurnax and Teyfunvahzah. The first Dovahkiin and the most terrible.”

            “I’ve heard a little about Miraak. Felldir and the others asked him for help against Alduin.”

            “He was a predator of our kind. It makes sense that Bormahu would create such a one as… surety.” Odahviing licked his fangs meditatively. “But he gave himself to the Woodland Demon, Herma-Mora, when Vahlok cast him down where Solstheim parted from Keizaal.”

            “…He’s not dead, is he?” Callaina asked with a sudden chill of foreboding.

            “I do not know. You may cast down Alduin to face a worse foe.” Odahviing sighed yet again. “I will fly you to Skuldafn, Kah-Lah-Nah. Alduin will kill me for failure anyway. I would prefer to put up a fight.”

            She laid a hand on his scaly forehead. “Thanks, Odahviing. You just might be braver than I ever was.”

…

She left Whiterun after one last kiss with Farkas, laden with resistance potions of all kinds, and was deposited at the bottom of the temple by Odahviing. The dragon then took to the skies, ordering the four lesser dovahhe to follow him to patrol the Jeralls. Intimidated by his position as Alduin’s lieutenant, they obeyed. Fear and obedience were the lot of lesser, younger dragons, it seemed.

            The few draugr and skeletons that remained were readily dealt with. Callaina wore mage robes now, enchanted to recharge magicka sooner and to make her spellcasting less strenuous, and the Sword of the Septims was in her hand. Nahkriin hovered before the great vortex of light that had to be the portal to Sovngarde, moving restlessly like a patrolling hound.

            “Drem Yol Lok,” Callaina called out to the Dragon Priest. “This is a quarrel of dragons and none of your concern.”

            “Jill?” the draugr asked, raspy voice shocked. “Jills do not fight.”

            “This one does. Bormahu made her to fight Al-Du-In, for his many trespasses against His will.” Callaina lifted her blade. “I sent Morokei on. You may choose his fate or stand aside or be slain. It’s the same to me if I’m put in that position.”

            “Your name,” Nahkriin demanded.

            “Kah-Lah-Nah.”

            The Dragon Priest went still. “Pride-Magicka-Fury.”

            “Yep. Now, I’d prefer to save my energy for kicking Alduin’s arse, but I’ll take you down too if I must.”

            “You are… were… Al-Du-In’s mate.” Nahkriin’s bony fingers tightened around his staff. “He destroyed you and Kaan breathed you in. That was why Paarthurnax and the others turned traitor, lest their Jills be killed next.”

            “My name comes from the Words closest to my joor name Callaina,” she said quickly. “It’s Old Colovian for ‘turquoise’, the colour of my eyes.”

            “It can be no coincidence that a female like Miraak wearing Al-Du-In’s mate’s name comes to fight him,” Nahkriin finally said. “You were a good Jill. Proud and beautiful as the storm.”

            “I’m not Alduin’s dead mate,” she said flatly.

            “No, now you are living again.” Nahkriin landed and knelt with a creak of bones and rasp of leather. “Go through, Kah-Lah-Nah. Greet Morokei and Vahlok well for me.”

            It wasn’t worth the argument. Callaina nodded and walked through the portal. Light took her and cast her into the mists.

…

In the mists, all quarrels were forgotten, the need for survival paramount. So it was how Ulfric found himself leading a warband of Stormcloaks, Imperials, random bandits who died with a sword in their hand and even a strange robed man who called himself Morokei. Torygg’s technique improved with a little training and the promise they could settle their fight more fairly when they reached the Hall of Valour. Rikke was here, apologetic about stabbing Egil. Now they roved through the mists – carefully, lest Alduin sense them – and found more of their kind. A true boon was when Kodlak Whitemane reached them, Torvar at his side.

            Time ran strangely. It felt like forever. It felt like he died in battle last night. But Ulfric hadn’t quit in the dungeons of the Thalmor even after he’d been broken, he hadn’t quit in the fight for Skyrim, and he’d be damned before he quit under the shadow of Alduin’s wings.

            “LOK VAH KOOR!”

            Korlaina’s Voice rang out through the mists, dispelling them to reveal the strange stars of Sovngarde. They crept back in after a time but she kept on dispelling them, walking along the path. Ulfric led his warband to the source of her Voice, glad to finally hear their salvation.

            “Damn,” the Dragonborn said with wry amusement and relief on seeing him. “Figured it’d take more than the World-Eater to beat you, Ulfric.”

            “Korlaina,” he greeted with a broad grin. “I have a warband and a grudge. Both are at your disposal, so long as you get us through these damned mists.”

            “Good to know I won’t be going against that arsehole alone,” she replied. “Follow me. Oh, Rikke?”

            “Yes,” the Legate Primus said warily.

            “Egil survived. He’s wearing the Jagged Crown. Titus Mede’s dead and I imagine Maro’s getting his arse kicked in Solitude by my mother now.” Her smile was a grim one and Ulfric couldn’t help but laugh. “Akaviria’s back in Cyrodiil right now, though, so I imagine she’ll keep the heartland together so the Thalmor don’t invade.”

            “Akaviria?” Galmar asked.

            “The Emperor’s granddaughter and most likely heir. Trained under the name of Ria with the Companions and after Gaius the Younger’s death, I figured it would be best if she headed home.” Korlaina regarded the Stormcloaks grimly, daring them to say something. “If Cyrodiil falls, it’s an open invitation to the Thalmor to invade through our underbelly.”

            Ulfric sighed. “I could have ended the war with a lot less deaths, Korli, if I had her as a hostage.”

            “You’d have had to take her from the Companions to do so,” the Dragonborn retorted. “And that would have broken the Stormcloaks’ cause.”

            Galmar sighed. “She’s right, damn her.”

            “Please don’t. I haven’t defeated Alduin yet,” Korlaina said dryly.

            Morokei laughed. “You will do so, Kah-Lah-Nah. Let us go and deal with Al-Du-In.”

            She smiled at the Dragon Priest. “Hello, Morokei. Glad to see you again. We stopped that mer.”

            “Good.” Ulfric looked at him askance but neither Morokei nor Korlaina said anything.

            They strode through the mists, Korlaina’s voice clearing the way, and eventually found their way to the giant Tsun. The God of Trials Against Adversity stood guard over the Whalebone Bridge, leaning on His terrible axe. Here, Shor’s power held against the mists.

            “What brings you, wayfarer grim, to wander here, in Sovngarde, souls-end, Shor's gift to honoured dead?” he asked of Korlaina, who’d stepped forward as the others huddled back – even Ulfric, Rikke and Galmar – in awe.

            “I am Aurelia Callaina, called Kah-Lah-Nah, called Korli Broken-Blade, called the Last Dragonborn,” she replied tightly. “It is my duty and doom to face Alduin, traitor and World-Eater, and bind him back in his proper place.”

             “So many names for a woman who shirks the fight and shies away from adversity,” Tsun noted. “Why should I grant you entry to the Hall of Valour, still-living, when you have not the heart to face Me?”

            “Don’t,” Korlaina said harshly. “Al-Du-In will come all the same and I will face him. Time spirals in on this moment, all futures and pasts as one. I am the broken blade. But the broken blade can still stab the enemy.”

            The God blinked, clearly taken aback. “You care not for the glories of Sovngarde?”

            “I’m a little more worried about making sure the world keeps on going,” Korlaina retorted. “I have a mate and family to return to. I have a brother who will rule Skyrim. I will be Mistress of Jorrvaskr, the one who will pour the sweet-sour mead for the heirs of Ysgramor to drink. I’ve never wanted glory nor power and that’s not about to change at the last minute.”

            Tsun looked troubled. “But to seek the final defeat of Alduin, you must enter the Hall.”

            “I will fight.” Ulfric spoke up, shouldering his way past the others. “Korlaina belongs to Kyne and since when did the Kiss at the End ever fight for anything other than self-defence or good reason? I am Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm, and I won Skyrim free of the Empire that betrayed her. I win, we all enter.”

            “And if you lose?” the giant asked, hefting his axe.

            “Then we face Alduin all the same. Korlaina sent him fleeing once with rather less help.”

            Tsun smiled slightly. “A worthy answer, Ulfric. Come then and prove yourself.”

            He moved ponderously, lifting that heavy axe over his head, and Ulfric used Unrelenting Force to knock the God on his arse. Closing in, he swung his war axe down close enough to shave the hairs on Tsun’s stubbled throat. The deity regarded him with an arched eyebrow and gleam of amusement in his eyes.

            “It has been long since I faced a Tongue in battle. I thought the art lost.”

            “It belongs in the hands of the Greybeards. I trained with them for a while.” Ulfric stepped back and offered his hand to Tsun, who took it as he rose to his feet. “I suppose that unless Korli unleashes her Shouts in battle, no more Tongues will go to war.”

            “Kyne gave the Nords that gift for a reason,” Tsun rumbled, eyes darkening. “It will be needed in coming days.”

            He stepped aside. “Enter, all of you, and be welcome to the glories of the Hall of Valour.”

            Korlaina was the last to go through, regarding the God with a sombre gaze. “I fight when I must,” she told him. “But never for fun or glory.”

            “You are of Kyne Sister-Hawk,” Tsun said. “Every other Dragonborn has been an Aspect of Shor. I don’t know what this change portents.”

            “Neither do I,” she said grimly. “And that scares the hell out of me.”


	33. Alduin's Bane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism. Now it’s really show time! I will return to ‘The Winter War’ soon, I promise.

 

“So this is the Hall of Valour.”

            Golden light suffused the entire building. The plates were golden. The heroes golden. Just about everything had a soft golden light upon it, including the warband that trundled into the Hall with wide eyes. Only Korli wasn’t golden.

            “It is,” Kodlak said beside her. “It’s everything I ever dreamed of.”

            “I’m not seeing you rush for the mead kegs,” she observed wryly because Galmar and Rikke had done just that.

            “It was never about the feasting for me,” the former Harbinger replied. “One day, I will lead the heirs of Ysgramor who are here to free those trapped under Hircine’s sway.”

            “Why?” Callaina asked. “Farkas read the journal to me. They could have refused the beast blood and a place in the Circle. If they chose to obey rather than think for themselves, that’s their decision, one you have no right to undo.”

            “You’ll never understand,” Kodlak said with a sigh.

            “No, I won’t.” Callaina looked around the feasting hall. “I’ll tell the Companions you made it. The Circle made me Mistress of Jorrvaskr and when I get back from here, I imagine Farkas and I will start to talk about marriage.”

            “Thank you, Korli.” Kodlak nodded to her and strode down the stairs to greet a burly Nord with the name of Askar.

            “Valkyria.” The gruff tenor was respectful and Callaina turned to face a heavy-shouldered man wearing a double-pronged helmet and breastplate carved with intricate interlace. “Dragonborn.”

            “Ysgramor,” she said with equal respect. He was Atmoran as only the Palers and Eastmarchers could be, fair-skinned and blue-eyed, grey hair shot through with streaks of white-blond. In his features she saw the template on which Ulfric’s and Galmar’s were built, Eorlund’s and even Korir’s. “Harbinger.”

            “There are those who would speak to you: Hakkon, heavy-handed warrior; Gormlaith, glad in battle; Felldir, old and grim. Others too, ancestors and heroes, who vie for the chance to engage Alduin in battle.”

            “Hakkon, Gormlaith and Felldir, aye, for their actions set this coil in motion. Those who call themselves Blade, for their oaths compel them to face the World-Eater. But not the others. Their time to face Alduin is not now but at the end of days, when it is for the Nords to show their last best worth.” Callaina wasn’t sure where those words came from but they seemed right and fitting.

            Ysgramor nodded in approval. “Aye. Maybe a few others – Ulfric, Galmar and Kodlak – for they’ve earned it. But you speak rightly, Valkyria.”

            “Thanks.” Callaina sighed and rubbed the back of her neck. “We found out why the Falmer attacked Saarthal.”

            “Oh?” Ysgramor asked, his eyebrow rising. “Did some survive the wars?”

            “Not exactly. The great sphere in Saarthal, the Eye of Magnus we call it. Some ancient scholars theorised that it was the cause and after all the trouble that damned thing caused, I can well believe it.” Her smile was crooked. “It’s been returned to Aetherius whence it came.”

            Ysgramor sighed. “Ahzidal said it would be bad news before he went to serve the Dragons, as did the Priests of Kyne, but the Priests of Shor and Jhunal weren’t to be denied. Do you think my response to the snow elves’ treachery was wrong, Valkyria?”

            “I don’t know. I can say that it laid down the pattern for men and mer for eons to come and probably a good many more.” She sighed. “When Alduin’s done for, I’ll need to prepare for another war with the Altmer, one that was started by my ancestor Talos.”

            “The Stormcrown. An Aspect of Shor that is the axis of the World-Wheel. Kind of a prick, if you’ll pardon the frank language.” Ysgramor smirked, clearly not sorry.

            “You have no idea,” she sighed again. “I bore the brunt of the backlash to His bullshit.”

            “Yet you survived.” Ysgramor echoed her sigh. “Go find Felldir and the others. Souls always arrive at Sovngarde and with Alduin’s mists choking the valley…”

            “Understood.” She saluted the hero-ancestor of the Nords and he returned it.

            Felldir, Gormlaith and Hakkon stood by the doors, Galmar, Kodlak and Ulfric a little bit away, talking among themselves. A brown-haired man, medium-sized for a Nord with olive-bronze skin and a beaky nose, watched them all with vivid blue eyes. He wore Blades armour and had the intact version of the katana that she carried.

            “Julius Martin,” she said. “Faralda spoke of you.”

            Julius Martin Aurelius, son of Martin Septim and Aurelia Northstar, smiled and revealed something of an under-bite. “Faralda survived the Thalmor? That’s good to know.”

            “She’s the Destruction Master at the College of Winterhold,” she replied. “She spoke well of you, if not Arius.”

            “I know.” Julius’ expression was now grim. “Your grandfather… never reacted well to stress and the first stages of the shadow war were a bad time for us all.”

            “The last stages weren’t much fun either,” she said bitterly. “And we’re likely to go for another round with the Thalmor in a few years.”

            His eyes grew distant. “That’s for the Dawn-Breaker, the Queen of Diamonds, the Bear-King and the Sword-Saint to worry about. You’ll have your own problems by then. Look for the First and with him you will find answers – and an enemy.”

            “Miraak,” she said grimly.

            “Miraak,” he agreed. “Alduin’s return opened more than one door.”

            She shook her head. “One threat at a time. Alduin needs his arse kicked before I worry about anything else.”

            “Yes, dividing my attention is what got me killed,” Julius admitted.

            “Nice to see you aren’t the perfect saint Esbern painted you as.” She refrained from mentioning that the Blades had failed in the end as they walked towards Felldir, Hakkon and Gormlaith.

            The old Tongue’s turquoise eyes crinkled. “So you are Korli,” he said with a smile. “I thought you’d be taller.”

            “Or at least in armour,” Hakkon said critically.

            “My dragon-fighting technique tends to involve running around, diving behind objects and throwing Icy Spears,” Callaina said wryly. “A hero of legend I am not.”

            “Evasion is a perfectly valid strategy,” Felldir said piously. “It does help to have some muscle around though.”

            “As it is to have the Priest of Jhunal to cast down our foes so we may fight on equal terms,” Gormlaith agreed cheerfully. “She definitely takes after your line, Felldir. It’s those damn Falmer eyes.”

            “Falmer eyes?” Callaina asked with an arched eyebrow.

            “My grandfather was a Falmer – a snow elf, not one of those twisted little creatures you call Falmer,” Felldir announced calmly. “He passed on his gift for ice magic and eyes the colour of sea-ice.”

            “Your father was a half-elf like Curalmil?” she asked curiously.

            His eyes lit up. “You knew Curalmil?”

            “Well, I found his White Phial. It was broken though.” She rubbed her nose. “Given what I know about stalhrim, I might be able to fix it.”

            “An extraordinary piece of work.” Felldir sighed and nodded to the door. “Let us go forth and defeat the World-Eater. I am sure Shor will permit you to stay a bit after the battle to talk.”

            She took a deep shuddering breath. It was time. “Let’s do this,” she said, hoping her voice didn’t quaver. “It’s about damn time Alduin pays his dues.”

…

“Go forth in victory!” Tsun bellowed as the small group of warriors crossed the Whalebone Bridge to confront Alduin.

            “Alright, we need to break these damned mists and get that bastard’s attention,” Korlaina announced, sounding so much like Sigdrifa that Ulfric could almost believe his wife was here. “Who knows Clear Skies?”

            The Three Tongues raised their hands.

            “Good. We four will shatter the mists and get his attention. Then me and whoever knows Dragon’s End will chain Alduin to the earth. Anyone with offensive spells and Shouts should stick to ranged attacks while the warriors close in. Go for the wings first. If he can’t fly, he’s vulnerable. Any questions?”

            No one bothered asking. The final battle for the sake of the world was due.

            “They’re relying on my strategy. Shit,” Korlaina muttered.

            “We will prevail,” Felldir assured her. “But listen! The World-Eater comes.”

            It took four volleys of Clear Skies to shatter the mists that Alduin brought back with a terrible Shout of his own. The World-Eater himself arrived on the shredded tatters, his terrible Voice dark with gloating. “I slew the last dovah to carry your name,” he said. “What makes you think that you will do better than her, Kah-Lah-Nah?”

            Korlaina simply responded with Dragonrend – interesting she called it Dragon’s End – and brought Alduin to earth. Ulfric unleashed Unrelenting Force, sending the black dragon skidding back.

            Julius Martin threw back his head and Shouted, “STRUN BAH QO!”

            The ferocity of Talos’ own storms struck the World-Eater with lightning as Galmar and Kodlak closed in, their axes cleaving the scales of the World-Eater. “Your blood is such a pretty shade of red!” the huscarl laughed.

            It could have been called a battle. But the Three Tongues and Korlaina simply chained Alduin to the ground with Dragonrend every time the Shout wore off, leaving the other four to wear the World-Eater down. After five or six uses of the Shout, Alduin’s scales were streaked with blood.

            He lifted his muzzle and opened it, revealing terrible fangs, when Korlaina cast Icy Spear directly down the throat. She then clenched her fists, the stalhrim projectile lengthening to spear through brain and lower jaw alike. She then pulled her right fist back sharply, Telekinetically burying the lower point into Sovngarde’s soft earth.

            “Naal suleyk do Kaan, naal suleyk do Shor, zu’u gron hi wah saraan fah hin tiid.”

            _In the name of Kyne, in the name of Shor, I bind you to wait for your time,_ Ulfric automatically translated as she drew the Sword of the Septims, its broken point glittering balefully in the strange light of Sovngarde, and drove it into the head of the World-Eater with all her might.

            Alduin got out a strangled “Niid! Zu’u los mafaeraak!” before cracking into a thousand pieces and exploding, leaving no corpse behind.

            “He’s not dead,” Korlaina croaked. “Just banished. One day, he’ll be Shor’s problem.”

            She used the Sword of the Septims to push herself up, Felldir helping her the rest of the way. Ulfric wished he could tell Sigdrifa the Kreathling Jarls’ famous turquoise eyes came from the wisest of the Three Tongues. The Falmer bit was better kept to himself. Her reaction would _not_ be good.

            “It is ended,” Felldir sighed.

            “For you, maybe,” Korlaina said tartly. “My job’s not even begun.”

            “But you have earned a measure of peace,” Hakkon pointed out.

            “True.” She closed her eyes. “Thank you for your help, all of you. I’ll tell the boys and the Circle that you did well against Alduin.”

            “Tell Bjarni and Egil I’m proud of them,” Ulfric told her, voice cracking with grief. “I never told them that.”

            “I will,” she replied. “But I think they already know it.”

            “Tell Njada she better keep Egil out of trouble,” Galmar rumbled.

            “She knows that, Galmar.” Korlaina’s smile was weak. “Anything for Farkas, Kodlak?”

            “Tell him that he and Vilkas were the sons of my heart,” the Harbinger said gravely. “And Korli – you were right.”

            Once again, Korlaina didn’t elaborate but nodded. “I will. Julius Martin-“

            “What is gone won’t come again. Tell the Queen of Diamonds to forge a new covenant with Akatosh because the Septim Empire is over, forever and aye.” The Blade drew his katana and gave it to Korlaina. “Give that to the Sword-Saint. He will need it in future days.”

            “He’ll more likely throw it into the sea,” she muttered. “Cirroc’s not happy with his ancestry.”

            “Well, he’s bound to it and the Madgoddess is meddling. If he accepts it, he might be able to change his fate.” Julius shrugged. “It’s all the same to me now, Callaina.”

            “I suppose it is.” Something like anger glinted in Korlaina’s eyes. “As you say, what is gone won’t come again, and I’ve never met the Redguard who won’t put up a fight against their doom. Cirroc’s a petulant little shit but damned if I don’t wish him luck. The Madgoddess started the shadow war with the Thalmor and we’re still paying for it.”

            She sighed and turned towards Tsun. “I might as well be sent back, Shield-Thane. Sovngarde isn’t my cup of tea and never will be.”

            “A fine thing you’ll never have to worry about feasting there then,” Tsun said dryly. “Shor would offer a rich boon-“

            “Shor can stick his rich boon where the sun doesn’t shine,” Korlaina said tartly. “I want nothing of Sovngarde and you want nothing of me.”

            Tsun spluttered. “You speak so to the Lord of the Dead?”

            “I’ve spent the last four months cleaning up the messes of Shor, Talos and Akatosh,” Korlaina retorted acidly. “I still have more on my plate with Miraak and the Thalmor. I am _sick and tired_ of being the gods’ plaything.”

            She drew herself up. “Send me home, Tsun.”

            The Shield-Thane Shouted and the Dragonborn vanished. “Some Nord she was,” he muttered under his breath.

            “Oh, I don’t know,” Ulfric found himself observing. “We Nords have been telling more powerful beings than us where to go for a long time, Tsun.”

            Tsun snorted. “Perhaps. But she offered grave insult to Shor and Talos.”

            “That’s her problem, not ours.” Ulfric grinned. “It’s time for the feast without end, the fight without death. To Sovngarde!”

            They had won. It was enough for him. It would have to be.


	34. The End of a Prophecy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for violence, mentions of death and fantastic racism. This is the last chapter of this story as my attention will shift to finishing ‘The Winter War’ and then possible sequels or other fanfics. Thank you for following me in this tale of the taxwoman who became the saviour of the world.

 

 _Rekthursedovahhe._ Overlady of the Dragons.

            Callaina felt the roar of the dovahhe’s mourning and acknowledgment of her right to rule in the wake of Alduin’s banishment, closing her eyes against the surge of power. She had denied Sovngarde and rejected Shor, seen the Prophecy of the Dragonborn through and come out on the other side. Ulfric and Galmar, Kodlak and Torvar and even Rikke were safe until the end of days, when the Nords would prove their last best worth against the return of the World-Eater. There was a future where once only existed survival and a need to keep her head low.

            Eventually the dovahhe took themselves off, leaving Paarthurnax, Teyfunvahzah and Odahviing behind. “It is finished,” the old grey dragon rumbled. “Now they will hear of the rightness of the Way of the Voice, to bring domination and mastery over themselves, whether they will or not.”

            “Let them come or not as they wish,” Callaina said, opening her eyes. “Or you’ll just keep the old way of ‘might makes right’ going. Everyone – man, mer, beastman and dovah – needs to adapt or die, Paarthurnax, but it is a choice each person must make.”

            Paarthurnax pondered her words. “So be it, Kah-Lah-Nah. I may need to Shout some sense into the younger ones who think me easy prey though.”

            “Self-defence is always allowed.” She sighed and raked back sweaty black hair. “What of you, Tey?”

            The little Jill dipped his head to the side. “I will chronicle this for future dovahhe,” he finally said. “Now that Alduin is banished, the Jills may return. It would be good to have friends again.”

            “And mates,” Odahviing rumbled. “Kah-Lah-Nah, I recognise the might of your Thu’um. By rightful conquest you are my Thuri – overlady – if you wish it.”

            “What happens if I refuse?” she asked carefully.

            “Then I have the choice to live with the Old One or be devoured by a lesser dovah,” Odahviing said simply. “Some things will take time to learn and the young ones need to grow.”

            “I suppose if I’m Jarl of the Dragons, you’re my huscarl and warleader,” she responded with a sigh.

            “You could sound a little more cheerful,” Tey noted.

            “My troubles have only just begun. It’s all but confirmed Miraak has returned and from the little I’ve heard, that is going to be a pain in the arse, especially if he has Hermaeus Mora’s backing. There’s the Moot and rebuilding Skyrim. There’s Jorrvaskr and the rebuilding of the Companions.”

            “The joorre will sort themselves out,” Paarthurnax observed. “You do not speak of the Krisfahliil, I noticed.”

            “They’ll trouble us in time.” She twisted her hair into a loose knot. “I’m returning to Whiterun. Farkas must be beside himself with worry.”

            “Why is your mate called ‘Acquire-Cat’?” Odahviing asked in some confusion. “Is he one of the cat people?”

            “No. It’s the phonetic sounding of his name in Dovahzul,” she answered with a wry smile. “He was a werewolf. The dichotomy stopped Mirmulnir long enough to get his arse kicked in Whiterun.”

            Odahviing rolled his eyes. “Mirmulnir was nearly as stupid as Ahgrahyol.”

            “Well, he was the dovah who set me on this path.” Callaina looked out over Skyrim below. “Odahviing, I want a tally of every dragon in Skyrim’s borders. I have a thought or two of how we can live with the joorre without one killing the other. If anyone refuses my authority, let me know. I’ll talk to them. If they refuse…”

            “They die,” Odahviing finished grimly. “Mercy is a good thing, Thuri, but some dovahhe cannot be trusted.”

            “I don’t want to kill my kind but you’re right,” she agreed with a sigh. “Unless they attack first, talk to me before killing anyone, alright?”

            “Yes, Thuri,” he grumbled.

            She took a deep shuddering breath. “Now for my favourite part: getting the hell off this mountain.”

            Teyfunvahzah laughed.

…

Farkas was coming home from the Bannered Mare when the attack happened. A little tipsy from all the mead being poured in honour of Korli’s victory, he almost missed the Dunmer mercenary Jenassa draw dual ebony blades. It was the instincts honed by a lifetime of fighting that saved him, deflecting the left dagger with his steel bracer and grabbing the right with his leather-gloved hand. He clenched his fist and broke the dark elf’s wrist, drawing a cry from her.

            “You’re a ruthless piece of work but you aren’t stupid,” he growled low and soft. “Why would you attack a Companion, huh?”

            Jenassa bit her thin lip, scarlet eyes defiant.

            “You got two choices. Talk and I’ll have Jarl Ralof exile you. Or don’t and I kill you.” He stared down at her, trying to do the death glare Vilkas did so well.

            “I was hired by a Nord – Eastmarcher, auburn hair, sideburns to make Farengar jealous,” she replied breathily. “He gave me enough coin to- Well. It was enough to ignore my instincts and attack. Enough to leave Skyrim.”

            Farkas spat to the side. “That coin’s coming with me as honour price. You’re gonna go to Windhelm an’ leave Skyrim on the next boat for Morrowind.”

            She stared at him. “Why are you showing me mercy?”

            “Because you were nothing but a hired knife,” he growled. “I know the Nord you’re talking of and I’m gonna have words with him.”

            He shoved her away and she stumbled back, crying out when her broken wrist hit something. “You got to dawn to get outta here before I get my brother,” Farkas said over his shoulder. “That’s assuming my mate won’t want words with you.”

            Jenassa picked herself up, holding her broken wrist. “You won’t get an argument from me. I heard about how she turned a Thalmor’s bones to acid.”

            Korli wouldn’t do that again without good reason but if it got Jenassa out of there, he’d let her think that. Farkas wanted to get back up to Jorrvaskr and wait for his mate. He hoped she’d be alright.

            By the time he got up there, Odahviing was letting Korli scramble off his back. She just lay on the ground and hugged it for a moment as the dragon huffed a laugh. “Thuri,” he rumbled. “You must master your fear of heights.”

            “I wasn’t born with wings, you scaled arsehole!” Korli snapped at him. “I’m sure I left my stomach up there too.”

            Odahviing rolled his eyes before looking at Farkas. “Who are you to approach the Rekthursedovahhe, joor?”

            “Honey, I’m home,” Korli said weakly. “Help me up? My legs aren’t working.”

            Farkas picked her up and she nestled her head against his shoulder. “This is my mate Farkas, Odahviing. Farkas, this is Odahviing, my… huscarl.”

            Odahviing lowered his head. “Ah, apologies, Ahmulsedovah.”

            “Husband of a dragon,” Korli translated softly.

            “It’s alright. You’re a huscarl. It’s your job.” Farkas eyed the rough patch on the dragon’s snout where he’d hit him with a greatsword. “Sorry about the nose.”

            “You were doing your job,” Odahviing echoed. “Thuri, I will have the count of dragons by week’s end.”

            “Thanks, big guy,” she told him. “Wind to your wings.”

            “I hope so. The thermals are bad here.” Odahviing climbed onto the wall as the guards belatedly realised there was a dragon in Whiterun and used the leverage to get himself into the air. By the time they got their bows, he was halfway to High Hrothgar.

            Korli sighed. “It’s done,” she said. “Kodlak’s in Sovngarde. He told me to tell you and Vilkas you were the sons of his heart.”

            Farkas sighed and hugged her closer, heading for the doors. “I’m glad you’re back. Didn’t like seeing you fly off on Odahviing.”

            “I didn’t much like leaving you behind,” she said wryly. “But we have a little peace for now.”

            Her tone said troubles were coming and the senses of the Harbinger, bestowed on him by the Flame and Kodlak’s formal relinquishment of the title, stirred in response. “Yeah, guess so. Maybe even enough to catch our breath before the bloodied sun and the First.”

            “Miraak.” Her voice was grim. “He will come to me or I will go to him. But ‘the bloodied sun’?”

            “I dunno.” Farkas sighed. “Got a problem closer to home. About ten minutes before you came back, Jenassa tried to kill me. Said someone who looks like your mama’s huscarl hired her to do it.”

            He shouldn’t tell her now, not when she was exhausted, but the words came out. Korli shifted so she could look him in the eye, her turquoise gaze disbelieving. “Calder? Why in the name of Kyne…?”

            “Dunno.” Farkas had a good clue though. Sigdrifa Stormsword had plans within plans and some of them probably involved his mate.

            “Farkas.” It wasn’t a question but a statement.

            “Ain’t gonna say something until I got proof,” he said. “Words travel, yeah?”

            Her gaze turned bleak. “Yeah.”

            They were now in Jorrvaskr, deserted because everyone was getting drunk at the Bannered Mare. He set her on her feet and she wobbled a bit but stayed up. Farkas watched her take a seat as he went to the cupboard to pull out cheese, bread and some dried meat. It was deep winter now and all the fresh meat was frozen in the cellar. Korli needed food now.

            “So, I guess I’m the Jarl of the Dragons,” Korli finally said with a sigh.

            “Do you get a place on the Moot?” Farkas asked with a smile.

            “I doubt it. I will be Mistress of Jorrvaskr but I’m going to have duties beyond that. The dovahhe need to live with the joorre and there’s only so much Paarthurnax and Teyfunvahzah can do.”

            “We gotta do what we have to,” Farkas said, placing a plate of food in front of her. “But tomorrow’s worries for tomorrow, as Tilma always said. You’re back and Alduin’s gone. When everyone finds out you’ve returned, there’s going to be a big party.”

            Korli was already shaking her head. “No. If they want to celebrate, they can do so. But I just want to spend time with you and catch my breath before the next disaster hits.”

            He sat down beside her. “We can do that. So, got an Amulet of Mara downstairs. I should be wearing it but-“

            “Yes.” Her answer was simple and heartfelt. “I wouldn’t have survived to do this without you. Your unwavering support and love kept me sane, Farkas. So yes, you’re stuck with me.”

            Farkas smiled and took her hand to kiss it. “Then we’ll talk to the Priests of Mara next time we’re in Riften.”

            Her smile was the first unshadowed one he’d ever seen on her face. It erased the worn weariness, making her the most beautiful woman in Tamriel. “Yes, we will, Ahmuli. My husband. So, uh, what’s the wedding tax in Skyrim?”

            He laughed. Despite everything, it was going to be alright. Certain as death and taxes.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Alok](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15294285) by [Dovahgriin (dovahgriin)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dovahgriin/pseuds/Dovahgriin)




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